Happy birthday, Ben Stiller!

The actor and comedian turns 49 today, and I’m using the occasion as an excuse to post this amazing clip from Keeping the Faith (2000), in which he demonstrates his Jewy bona fides as the Hip Young Rabbi who hires a gospel choir to invigorate his stodgy congregants. (Quick refresher, for those who didn’t waste their precious adolescence memorizing B-grade film plots: Stiller plays a rabbi unwittingly caught in a romantic rivalry with his childhood friend, a priest played by Edward Norton. The object of their affection? The very gentile, very verboten Jenna Elfman.)

As far as rom-coms go, it’s no Annie Hall, but I’d give it a solid… B minus, I guess? I mean, the plot is absurd—the entire film pivots on the notion that religious leaders will actually feel guilty about succumbing to sexual temptation, which, LOL—but it’s fun, kind of? Jenna Elfman in her prime!

Now also seems like an apt moment to remind you all that when Ben Stiller’s band performed “Hey Jude” at his bar mitzvah, Jerry Stiller got upset and rushed the stage because he thought they were singing “Hey Jew.” Halevai.

Until 120, Ben!

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I own hardly any white clothes, a fact that took me by surprise, once again, last Kol Nidre.

This is equal parts vanity and common sense: white is a color that highlights your shape; it emphasizes largeness and form. And in New York City, where I live, every surface is dusted with low-grade filth.

I owned one pair of white jeans that rode too low and never came out clean, no matter how I washed them. I had one sheer jersey dress, an ill-fitting gift that I couldn’t face throwing away. So come Yom Kippur morning last year I trotted them out, cobbling together an outfit. My giant tallit covered the rest. I looked ridiculous, but that was the price I had to pay for my failure to plan, I told myself. Next year, I promised, I’d get my act together in advance. I made a lot of promises that week.

Draping oneself in humble whites on Yom Kippur has been a traditional Jewish custom for millennia. It’s also the custom of the exuberant, neo-traditional-hippie Jewish community that I gravitated towards in adulthood. While I do not own a kittel (the white burial robe that men traditionally wear on their wedding day and Yom Kippur), I like the gravity of donning a garment with the weight of death; the effacement of self-expression when approaching divine judgment. But the notion of purity—so central to the Yom Kippur prayer service—that’s harder for me to swallow.

Last month, I listened to one of my favorite rabbis singing selichot, the penitential prayers offered before the high holy days. With his studied persuasiveness, in a gravely voice that gets me every time, he offered his annual plea: Do something to prepare yourself for the Days of Awe. Don’t let the holidays creep up on you. Do the spiritual work.

I do not believe that the work he envisioned was online dress shopping, but that is exactly what I did as soon as I got home—until 1AM. I was dismayed to find scores of white dresses at full price after Labor Day. (Are no sartorial traditions sacred anymore?) I recalled my ambivalence while white dress shopping for my wedding, the appalling 600 percent markup on anything a bride might consider wearing. Same symbolism: death, rebirth, purity, humility. They are very expensive symbols.

And there were so many ways to sort and filter the results! White, of course. Not short, maybe long or mid-length? The thought floated through my mind that this was perhaps not the type of work that would best serve my most sincere repentance. But imagining myself embodied on Yom Kippur was weirdly helpful. What would it be like to slip this dress over my head or zipper it up? How would the fabric feel on my skin? I rejected outfits if I didn’t think I could move freely in them, or ones that looked itchy. With this time investment, at least I’d get to skip the nagging guilt of failing to prepare.

Except that I found nothing. I filtered until there was nothing left. Everything was too short, or too cleavage-enhancing, or made of some unearthly polyester. These dresses were not designed for a solemn occasion, for beating one’s chest or praying through tears.

I thought about the time a few years back when I tried to do the Great Aleinu—the full prostration—in high heels and a very reasonable skirt. I remembered being totally distracted by my clothes, and how I had obviously not done the work—the unglamorous, practical work—of making sure that I could pray the way I wanted to. My body’s shelter, inside my community’s shelter, was totally ill-suited for the task.

One Yom Kippur when I had just moved west, I attended a Jewish Renewal service in Oakland. One congregant in particular caught my eye. She was standing up, swaying, arms pointing heavenward, and full-throat singing literally the whole time. I don’t know what she was on, but I wanted some. Her flowing caftan housed her corpulence, and I realized that she was free to really be in her body. It was hers—and God’s—to see. I wondered if that was what it was like to be invisible and also really, truly seen and present.

With no acceptable white dresses online, I went to H&M, and was immediately overstimulated by the ritual thud of dance music. But in the clothing-to-junk cycle of seasonal fashion, there were no more white dresses. I had not prepared early enough. Thumbing through racks, I thought about how nobody seemed interested in selling women clothing for solemn occasions; clothing for simply being present in our bodies—as opposed to being gazed upon by judges, male and female. It seemed so obvious. Obviously nobody wants to sell me that.

When I was a kid, we looked really nice on the High Holidays. This was my mother’s rule, and her mother’s. No runs in stockings. Nothing scuffed or stained or ill-fitting from last year. The clothes weren’t white, but they were pristine and considered in advance. It wasn’t spiritual per se, but it was a big deal and the community custom.

I remember visiting that congregation during college. A teenager was wearing a barely-there fuchsia and black party dress with spaghetti straps. She looked miserable. I preferred to imagine that the misery preceded the dress, a spirited teenage protest. She wasn’t allowed to skip services, but she could wear that dress. Or perhaps she felt miserable because she realized she’d committed an etiquette misstep.

I was not offended by her dress or her body, but I wondered how she felt, if she was conscious of others’ eyes on her, or perhaps blissfully unaware. I wondered if her dress helped her get what she wanted out of that service or that day, if it helped her do her work.

I was never much moved by the soul of that suburban temple. But I did notice that we’d all shown up, even those of us who probably would not return for another year. The room contained a kernel of somber optimism, a desire to hold for a moment the belief that with the work, one can find in oneself a fresh heart. That our days can be renewed. God knows, we can’t do it alone.

Back on the internet, I lowered my standards. I found myself considering my shopping filters and realized that they described some odd form of modesty, a concept I hold with profound suspicion. I think of modesty as a construct, a matrix of community norms—people looking at other people, and women worrying about what other people think we look like. There is so little I can do about this. I can maybe control my own feelings, and I can learn better not to project a bunch of baloney onto other people. But my tools to resist unreasonable standards—the same standards that demand me to wear clothes I can’t do my work in—are limited, because I’m a person. I wanted a modest uniform for this day of extreme humility, not to serve someone else’s needs, but to do my work. It’s not exactly that I wanted to be invisible. Rather, I wanted an outfit in which I felt safe revealing the innermost core of myself, beating my chest, shedding my tears, whatever that looks like.

I filtered the results again, optimistically. Mid-length, sure. White or off-white. Natural fibers or natural-looking. The results that popped up were mostly sheer, with peek-holes, or sundresses that would give me a chill. There was nothing left.

The part of me that wanted to look polished, like my mother would strongly recommend, that part of me was not on good terms with the part of me that would like to not be seen, to just buy the damn kittel already. But I couldn’t look good and be unseen at the same time. Wearing the men’s uniform wouldn’t solve this dilemma. It wouldn’t undo the tensions between seeing and being seen, by community, by God, by myself.

So I just bought a dress and accepted its imperfections. It’s not designed to solve my problems. No dresses are. It’s too big. It’s 80/20 cotton/polyester. It was on sale, but not by much. But it has pockets and falls to a comfortable length above my knee. It’s like a boxy house, though it looked more like a stylish and modern house on the model than it does on me. The fabric is thick and spongy, and I’ve been added to the store’s email list, from which there is apparently no unsubscribe. I’m more terrified than ever about my limited capacity to do this work—the real work under the clothes—but this feels like a durable shelter, a start.

(Image by Vanessa P., via Flickr)

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Growing up, I loved kiddush. It was the reason I went to temple—or at least it was my favorite part of going to temple. I knew there was more to services than the mounds of cookies that came after Adon Olam. The junior congregation service, intended for Hebrew school-aged children, was fun. We prayed, and there were activities to keep us engaged. We learned that temple was exciting and meaningful while being introduced to the basics of the service. For me, the fun just happened to continue at kiddush, and Adon Olam was my cue.

The junior congregation kiddush always had Drake’s goodies like Yodels or Devil Dogs. But the adult kiddush, usually sponsored by that week’s bar or bat mitzvah family, was where the real treats could be found. Here were the cookies I longed for—the kosher cookies that somehow made my Saturday special. Even though as a kid I should have liked Drake’s more, there was something about those adult kiddush cookies that did it for me. Perhaps it was in my DNA.

I would start with the yellow cookies with the pink or yellow circle in the middle—you know the ones—soft but with a nice little icing crunch. Then I would move on to rugelech, a cookie that speaks for itself. When I ate the rainbow cookies, I ate around the jelly (if only my childhood self understood the joys of jelly!). After the cookies, I would indulge in a marble slice. What more could a young kiddush lover ask for after a morning of davening?

Then, things changed for this Kiddush lover. No, I didn’t grow up and decide to give up cookies. Who would say no to a cookie at Kiddush? What a shonda. Instead, at 13, I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease. A diagnosis of celiac requires one to go on a gluten-free diet: a diet free of wheat, rye, and barely. The kosher kiddush cookies I once loved and devoured were now off limits. Kiddush was gluten. It was the end of an era.

At that time, I was very accepting of my diagnosis because I understood that my health was dependent on strictly following the new diet. There was no time to long for the gluten goodies I once ate. The kosher kiddush cookies were just cookies, and I could not have them.

I left it at that until I discovered gluten-free kosher cookies from Shabtai Gourmet and rugelech from Katz Gluten-Free. It was a gluten-free miracle. These cookies tasted just like kiddush. These cookies contained, for me, the essence of kiddush. They reminded me of the Saturdays of my childhood. Without realizing it, I had been longing for a gluten-free cookie in the style of a kiddush cookie.

My Judaism is by no means rooted in cookies, but those vivid kiddush memories are part of my relationship with my Judaism—just as being gluten-free is not who I am, but at the same time, it is a very real part of me. The rationale behind my post-diagnosis desire for cookies identical to those of my youth is common for a gluten-free eater. Often those of us on the gluten-free diet look for foods that are exact or very close replications of the gluten foods we once ate. I have found many replacement items that have had been meaningful for my palette, but the gluten-free kosher cookie discovery was monumental. Food is so enmeshed in the cultural fabric of being Jewish, and I was again able to feel like I could fully participate.

These days, my kiddush is no longer sponsored by the bar or bat mitzvah family, instead it’s brought to me by Shabtai Gourmet and Katz’s Gluten-Free. Shabtai Gourmet has the kosher classics, gluten-free: everything from Florentine Lace Cookies to Rainbow Cookies to Mini Black & Whites. Katz Gluten-Free has my chocolate rugelech. Together, these two companies recreated the essence of kiddush for me.

The gluten-free Jewish community can finally have their kiddush cookies, and eat them too.

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Last year, I compiled a list of literature I felt appropriate for the introspective nature of the High Holidays. Throughout the year, I shul hopped my way around the tri-state area and found a surprising form of synagogue worship: reading throughout the service. Everywhere I went, I found a steady group of people who came to synagogue to read. While some might find this offensive, I found it encouraging. The shul environment is tranquil, calm, and conducive to letting words wash over your mind. In that vein, here are eight more books—new and old—that I find transplant me to a more receptive mindset during these reflective days.

Fiction

Scenes From a Village Life, by Amos Oz

Oz, the elder statesmen of Israeli writers, writes this slim, beguiling state of the union address in the form of interconnected short stories about a fictional town in Israel. Death, decay, and loss pervade these stories that manifest an Israel uncertain of its past and frightened of its future. Yet despite the many dire situations, Oz evinces an infinite love for his homeland, albeit a homeland he sees as lost. Beyond their statement about the health of Israeli culture, these beautiful stories confront essential questions of family, loyalty, and the nature of commitment.

Love’s Executioner, by Irvin Yalom

Yalom is an interesting species of writer. Born Jewish, turned atheist and secularist, Yalom still displays an abiding spirituality in his embrace of existential thinking in psychotherapy. In his most famous book, Love’s Executioner, Yalom shares 10 stories from his therapeutic practice that allow the reader to explore personal fears and insecurities. The introduction itself, a pitch perfect summation of existentialist therapy, justifies the hefty price of the book.

Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes

Barnes’ meditation on memory and missed opportunities will entrance all types of readers. In this short book full of crystalline prose, Barnes weaves the story of Tony, a man in his sixties, looking back and questioning the tidy narrative of his life. In a time devoted to reflection, seeing Tony mine his experiences to understand how he got to the exact point he’s now at will open even the most cynical heart to the possibility of redemption.

Wise Blood, by Flannery O’Connor

One of the legends of 20th century fiction, O’Connor tends to get more notice for her short stories than for her novels. With her characteristic charismatic southern humor and darkness, O’Connor explores religious crises in an often surprising manner in her first novel. Though rooted in Christianity, the story of a young person returning home only to find himself struggling with his religious heritage will appeal to people of various persuasions. O’Connor, in her often mysterious way, makes the case that those who rail against God and those who live with doubt are some of the most religious people.

Gilead, Home, by Marilynne Robinson

Robinson represents one of the last bastions of religious writers. One of the best writers of our generation, she manages to combine some of the finest writing with the deepest religious sentiment. In Gilead, an aging pastor writes a letter to his son about the nature of faith, devotion, and the challenges of modern life. Robinson’s portrayal of religious life represents a true understanding of spiritual struggles and motivation. Home, a sequel of sorts to Gilead, tells the story not from the perspective of a dying pastor, but from the perspective of the prodigal son returning home. Any of her books, whether essay or fiction, would foot the bill for these introspective days, but this one-two punch captures the range of today’s religious experience.

Nonfiction

The Convert: A Tale of Exile and Extremism, by Deborah Baker

Baker writes a stunningly brilliant biography of Maryam Jameelah, previously known as Miriam Marcus, a secular Jew who converted to Islam and became a famous writer of anti-American books in Pakistan. Baker weaves Jameelah’s story from her letters to her parents and others, but eventually Baker widens the book’s scope to investigate the charismatic leader that guided Jameelah’s transition, Mawlana Mawdudi, the divide between Islam and the West, and ultimately, an exploration of Baker herself. She questions her own assumptions about life, civilization, and the limits of knowledge—all while pushing the boundaries of a biography considerably beyond what we may expect from the genre.

In the Valley of the Shadow: On the Foundations of Religious Belief, by James Kugel

Kugel, a renowned biblical critic, explores his beliefs through his experience with cancer. Never one to shy away from the struggles of contemporary Judaism, Kugel seeks, with the mind of an academic and the heart of poet, to find “the starting point of religious consciousness.” He also takes the reader on a journey into the depths of religious experience.

HHhH, by Laurent Binet

We focus so much on the Jewish experience in the Holocaust that we risk forgetting the larger context of the war. Binet masterfully explores a secret mission to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, while considering the nature of courage, heroism, and meaning—crafting an exciting, dramatic, true story. Binet also sheds light on more recent histories of war, genocide, and heroism, acknowledging that these episodes can make us feel our lives are a bit, well, mundane. Binet acutely taps into this epochal insecurity of ours. Often our lives can feel small and insignificant compared to those heroes of previous generations, but Binet also finds redemption in our ability to learn from history.

Previously: Days Of Awe(some) Books: A High Holiday Reading List

The post Days Of Awe(some) Books: A High Holiday Reading List, Part II appeared first on Jewcy.

This was the first Rosh Hashanah I didn’t go to shul. I still saw friends, went to meals, dipped the apple in honey more than once, yet I never entered any one of the several minyanim I’ve frequented in the past. I never opened the machzor I’ve been using for years, the one I received free in the mail for a hoped-for donation that I didn’t send. And I never heard the shofar blasts calling me to repentance.

Does this mean I was blameless all year, that I had nothing to repent for? Hardly. It’s just that despite the myriad of rituals, the primary way the Jews I know mark Rosh Hashanah is with an extra-long synagogue service. And I don’t enjoy prayer.

This is not merely a sign of how degenerate I’ve become since leaving Orthodoxy. Prayer, even when I was a full-on believer, was always the most difficult part of Judaism for me. I’ve never been able to sit or stand still and even the most vigorous shokeling, the ritualistic swaying that the religious set do while davening, was never enough to keep boredom at bay. As a child, I was able to leave services without glares of disapproval and would spend hours in the ladies’ room with a friend, swinging from stalls (though I never did giant swings like John Cage did on Ally McBeal) and giving bubbies the scare of their lives when I popped out.

As I got older, I was expected to stay in the women’s section for even longer periods of time as though age had miraculously reformed my twitchy nature. It did no such thing. Throughout the practically daylong Rosh Hashanah services, I’d alternate my foot tapping from one leg to the other and then back again. I would leave my seat as often as possible to get sips of water from the fountain or to visit the restroom. I no longer attempted acrobatics in the stalls. Rather, I engaged in the more teenage-appropriate behavior of checking my hair in the mirror. But after five old ladies entered the bathroom and then left, I felt obligated to return the sanctuary.

Despite these stratagems, there was still left ample time to stew in my seat. Or stand and pray. The worst was mussaf, which translates to “additional service.” The first part is recited to oneself and I did my best to complete it as quickly as possible in order to get a chance at sitting before the even longer repetition portion began. (Woe unto me when I learned at school that I wasn’t supposed to sit down in front of a person still engaged in prayer. I’d stare angrily at the woman behind me who seemed to be taking her sweet time communing with God and seeking blessings for her family. I hated her so much.)

I also engaged in “machzor math” by flipping to the end of the mussaf service to figure out how many pages were left until the final shofar blasts of the day. (As a math-phobic person, this remains the only type of arithmetic I’ve ever been any good at.)

At times, however, I took a grim satisfaction in surviving the service as though I had run some sort of liturgical marathon. Back at school after the holidays, we’d boast to one another about how long our davening lasted. The winners (and losers) were the ones who didn’t get to eat lunch until it was practically time for seniors in Florida to get their early bird specials. (This same sort of competition was applied to Passover seders. Eating dinner before midnight was a sign of impiety.) In Orthodox Judaism, as in my beloved sport of gymnastics, your grit is measured by how much suffering you can endure.

As an adult, I stopped attending Orthodox services. I found congregations that shared my values, from egalitarianism to social justice. There is just one problem—these guys use a liturgy very similar in content and length to the service of my youth. And they really like to sing it out.

Again, I found myself resorting to the same time-killing strategies I used as a kid. I showed up late, got up often to go to the bathroom and get sips of water. I found people to speak to. I rose and sat with the congregation. And I counted how many pages we had to go until we would be free for the day.

When I woke up on Monday morning, I was ready to go through all of it again. I’d show up late and then distract others with mindless chatter. And then I’d distract myself when they’d finally shush me. I’d rise and sit in accordance with the script. Once again I’d hope that instead of ten or twenty minutes of connectedness with the material and the songs, maybe I’d get half an hour this year.

Then I decided to go back to sleep. Perhaps it was pure laziness that kept me in bed for hours with a book and a cup of coffee until it was time to meet my friends for lunch. And it was that, at least in part. But it was also me finally recognizing that prayer wasn’t meant to be my form of spiritual expression and engagement.

On some level, this is surprising. I’m a writer and rabbinic Judaism (as one good rabbi friend once pointed out to me) is a verbal culture. I enjoy text study and can argue for hours. You’d think that prayer, being comprised of a lot words written into books, would also thrill me. But when confronted with the liturgical text, I rarely feel anything in the recitation of it, even amongst a group of friends I love and respect. It mostly leaves me cold.

So what’s the difference between the intellectual discussion that excites me and the prayers that bore me to distraction? It is, in part, the demand for stillness. I’m not a meditative sort and I feel most connected when I’m moving and dancing. But it’s also the rote nature of these lengthy services. What I cherish about literary analysis and debate is that though we are working from a static text, we’re improvising as we argue. For me, spirituality is achieved, however briefly, from constant shifting and changing. I can’t work from a script. (Or remember a beam routine much to my former coach’s chagrin.)

This reminds me, like virtually everything else in life, of a moment from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When Werewolf Oz is asked about Sunnydale High School’s marching jazz band, he explains, “Since the best jazz is improvisational, we’d be going off in all directions, banging into floats…scary.”

Similarly, a standardized davening keeps the congregation together. The unity and cohesion of many voices joining together, saying the same words, is for some an incredibly spiritual experience. I have friends who find great fulfillment and connectedness in the traditional service.

Thankfully, these folks mostly indulge me and my inability to daven. After two years of living in Los Angeles, my friends hosted a Shabbat lunch to bid me farewell. When it came time to bench after the meal, one announced, “I think that because it’s Dvora’s last Shabbat here, we should bench quietly and to ourselves, the way she likes it.” It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Though undoubtedly these friends also find Rosh Hashanah davening overly long—I’ve spied others doing machzor math—they enjoy a good sing-along and get into it. I wouldn’t want anyone to cut it short on my behalf.

Besides, the longer they spend in shul, the more time I get to spend in bed or dancing around my apartment before I meet them for the most Jewish act of all—eating.

(image via Shutterstock)

The post Shul’s Out For Rosh Hashanah appeared first on Jewcy.

For many families, eating honey cake is a Rosh Hashanah staple, but in my family it wasn’t eaten so much as ignored. I never cared for this particular baked good. I find it heavy and cloyingly sweet. It was a cake I associated with grandparents and shul kiddush leftovers—always left untouched as the crowd thinned and people headed home for lunch. But wherever I went on Rosh Hashanah, people would insist on making and serving this cake because its star ingredient, its namesake, is practically the symbol for Rosh Hashanah. After all, how can you say “l’shana tovah u mitukah”—“to a good and sweet new year”—without honey?

The honey cake originated in Germany around 1320 and was called lekach, coming from the German word for “lick.” Honey was often used as a treat to encourage and entice young yeshiva students in their studies. Early Ashkenazi Jews even made a ceremony out of it with the Aleph-Bazyn: honey was spread on slates containing the Hebrew alphabet and as the young students licked off the honey, the idea was that they were reminded of the sweetness the Torah held. At the end of the ceremony, honey cakes along with other sweets were distributed.

Before the days of refrigeration and plastic cake-savers, honey was also an extremely popular ingredient in cooking and baking because it acted as a preservative and was supposed to ensure a moist cake. Unfortunately, this aspect of the cake—the densely sweet cake that seems to last forever—is not so enticing. To compensate for that, I’ve come up with a version that lightens things up by incorporating the traditional flavor of the honey cake into a chiffon cake, which is leavened by both chemical leaveners and beaten egg whites. The result is a moist, yet light, cake.

To heighten the taste, I paired the cake with a pomegranate glaze, which offers a tangy and fruity counterpoint to the sweetness. Pomegranates are also a traditional Rosh Hashana food because their many seeds are said to number 613, the same as the number of mitzvot found in the Torah. Many people eat them in order to usher in a year filled with good deeds—I eat them because of their deliciously tart seeds that burst with flavor. Sprinkling fresh seeds on top of the glazed cake adds a wonderful texture as well as flavor to the cake.

Unlike its earlier iterations, this honey cake—with its light texture, ruby red glaze, and crunchy pomegranate topping—shouldn’t be ignored. If nothing else, it will help usher in a year filled with scrumptious cakes and tastier shul kiddushes.

Not Your Bubbe’s Honey Cake
8-10 Servings

Ingredients:

Cake:
1 cup all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
pinch of salt
5 eggs, separated
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil
3 tbsp honey-flavored tea (honey chamomile, or honey lemon are also fine), cooled
Zest of half a lemon

Glaze:
2 cups unsweetened pomegranate juice
1/4 cup sugar
2 tbsp orange juice
3 tsp corn starch
Pomegranate seeds for decoration

Special Equipment:

9-inch tube pan or Bundt pan

Directions:

1. Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees and grease the pan well.

2. To make the cake, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

3. In a separate bowl, combine the egg yolks and both sugars, mixing well.

4. Add the oil, honey, tea, and lemon zest to the egg yolk mixture.

5. Combine the honey mixture with the flour mixture and set aside.

6. In another bowl, beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks, being careful not to over beat them.

7. Add 1/3 of the whites into the flour and honey mixture and combine. Add the next third in carefully, folding the whites in until nearly combined. Add the last 1/3 of the whites, gently folding, being careful not to deflate them.

8. Pour into the prepared pan and put directly into the oven and bake for 40-45 minutes, or until the cake springs back when you touch it.

9. Let cool for 10 minutes, then invert the pan onto a cooling rack and let the cake finish cooling off inverted in the pan. When completely cool, carefully lift the pan to unmold. If you have any difficulty, run a thin knife around the edges of the pan to help the cake out.

10. While the cake is in the oven, make the Pomegranate Glaze. To make the syrup, combine the pomegranate juice sugar, orange juice, and cornstarch in a sauce pot.

11. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat and allow the mixture to simmer. Cook the mixture for about 20 minutes, until it thickens and reduces by half. If necessary, strain the mixture and then allow it to cool.

12. When both the cake and glaze are cool, pour the glaze over the cake and then sprinkle the fresh pomegranate seeds on top.

Also try:

Not Your Bubbe’s Kibbeh Agemono

Not Your Bubbe’s Borscht Salad

Not Your Bubbe’s Deconstructed Baba Ghanoush

The post Not Your Bubbe’s Recipe: Honey Chiffon Cake With Pomegranate Syrup appeared first on Jewcy.