My husband affectionately tells me that I like shtetl food.

I think he gets a kick out of his millennial wife filling her bowl with chicken necks and broth. I feel bad telling him he has no taste buds. Chicken necks are good, potato kugel is the ultimate comfort food, and if I eat every part of the chicken on the bone, cartilage and all, is that so weird?

He nods emphatically when I ask, which means his opinion on this subject no longer counts. Besides, I like Starbucks and sushi as much as the next girl. There’s just something about shtetl food…

Images of visits to Savta’s house have grown hazy over the years, relocated to that area of my brain where half-memories and half-stories have merged to create pictures that might or might not be real. Like that blizzard I’m sure I remember from when I was two, or the play my sisters tell me I slept through, but I’m sure I know the opening song from hearing it onstage and not from the constant singing around the house.

I remember the crystals on Savta’s lampshades, and the plastic-covered chairs, but do I really remember pulling my reluctant Zeida away from his sefer to play dreidel with me? I can’t be sure...

What I do recall, really, truly, is the spread laid out on the table in Boro Park every single time we visited. Whether it was after kapparos, with the chicken’s terrifying screeching still ringing in my ears; on Chanukah for some dreidel-playing and thick chocolate coins; or any time throughout the year when we stopped by for kisses and warmth, the table would be set with crystal, china, and a thick, embroidered tablecloth.

There were bowls of whipped cream and sliced strawberries, pretty chocolates spread out, ginger ale and seltzer, and of course, a large tureen of steaming hotdog stew.

On Yamim Tovim, there were holiptches wrapped tightly enough to be safely tossed over a roof and fluffy kneidlach and roasts. But when we’d visit during the week, it was hotdog stew.

To my young taste buds, this was the last word in haute cuisine. The stew was saucy and sweet, with potato chunks and hotdog slices bobbing around happily. And as we consumed bowl after bowl, I remember the feeling of being totally, unconditionally loved.

I was young when they passed away, too young to have gotten to know my grandparents as real people, and so, in my mind, they’re the archetype Zeida and Savta, who pinched cheeks and pressed dollars into hands, and cooked warm, delicious food.

Now, with a home of my own, including recipe books and a husband who makes fun of my old-fashioned cravings, I understand. Hotdog stew isn’t high cuisine. There’s no recipe to follow, no dash of this and half a tablespoon of that.

Hotdog stew is the fare of a woman who worked full-time, at several jobs, to support her husband in Torah. A woman who ran around — in high heels — probably just minutes after getting home on a cold winter’s night to prepare something hot and filling for the people she loved.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 623)