Mother’s Day and Bubby Noodles: A Recipe of the Heart

In my 2G women’s group, we often discuss the unique experiences we share as daughters of Holocaust survivors. We come together to share our stories, struggles, and triumphs. Recently, we decided to create a cookbook of family recipes. For me, this posed a challenge—I have no family recipes to contribute. My mother wasn’t a passionate cook, but she made food with a love that shaped our memories in ways no recipe ever could.

My mother’s early years were marked by unimaginable hardship. She spent time in the Lodz ghetto, where she endured unimaginable loss, including the death of her own mother. It’s hard to imagine that, in the midst of such tragedy, there would have been time for her to learn or pass down family recipes. The focus in those years was simply survival—recipes and family traditions became secondary. So, the culinary legacy that some families are able to pass down simply wasn’t part of my mother’s experience. Instead, she focused on nourishing those she loved in the simplest ways possible.

My mother was a Holocaust survivor, a loving wife, and a devoted mother. She carried herself with quiet dignity, creating a home that was as warm as it was orderly. Everything she did, she did with care. She took pride in her appearance, always beautifully dressed, her hair perfectly styled. She had a natural elegance that went beyond formal education—an instinctive sophistication that made her stand out. She loved beautiful things, not for extravagance but because they brought her joy.

She was also incredibly skilled with her hands. She knitted with precision, creating intricate sweaters and blankets that were both practical and beautiful. She did delicate hand embroidery, a craft that required patience and artistry. These were the things she excelled at, the ways she expressed her creativity and care. But the kitchen? That was a different story.

Cooking was not her passion. She had a handful of reliable dishes—steak or hamburgers for weeknights, chicken soup and roasted chicken for Friday night traditional Shabbat dinner  and a Polish cholent for Shabbat lunch. Her cholent was simple, just meat and potatoes, with none of the beans or barley found in other families’ recipes. She was not an adventurous cook, nor did she pretend to be. Her meals were straightforward, predictable, comforting. They were not about culinary artistry but about tradition and nourishment.

She had two baking specialties. On Shabbat, there was always Lekech, a sponge cake that was as much a part of our Friday night table as the candlesticks. And, on rare and special occasions, she made her yeast crumble cake—her krishcaleh  (crumb) cake. It was light yet rich, with a delicate, buttery crumb topping that melted in your mouth. The recipe was never written down, never passed on. I suspect it came from a German nanny or neighbor during our time in Zeilsheim Displaced Persons camp or in Frankfurt, but we will never know for sure. What I do know is that it was hers, made from memory, shaped by hands that had known both hardship and love.

For my children, my mother’s cooking wasn’t about elaborate meals or fine dining. It was about comfort, about the small rituals that made a house a home. The strongest culinary memory they have of their grandmother, Bubby, is not the Lekech or even the krishcaleh cake—it was her chicken soup. Instead of traditional noodles, she always used delicate egg flakes. To this day, in their own homes, my children make chicken soup just as she did, always with “Bubby noodles,” a small but meaningful tribute to their grandmother’s way of doing things. One day, my daughter-in-law sent my grandson to the store to pick up “Bubby noodles.” He returned empty-handed and confused. “I couldn’t find them,” he said. “They didn’t have that brand.” He genuinely thought Bubby Noodles were a product on the shelf. We all laughed, but in that moment, I realized how deeply those noodles—those memories—had become part of our family’s story.

But more than the food itself, what they remember most is the feeling of being with her—sitting around a table, sharing stories, laughing, feeling loved. Many of their memories involve takeout rotisserie chicken or simple meals at unfussy restaurants, because for my mother, food was never the main event. It was simply a backdrop to what truly mattered: family, conversation, and the warmth of being together.

Her meals may have been simple, but her love was rich. Though some of her recipes, like her krishscaleh cake, may have faded with time, the true inheritance she passed down was not in flour-dusted pages or handwritten notes, but in the traditions of gathering, sharing, and remembering. I carry the memories of her meals—of the way she loved those she cooked for—and the comfort those simple dishes provided.