The Ridiculously High Cost of a Kosher Thanksgivukkah

Last November, I discovered one of the silver linings to wearing a face mask: Fewer people can hear you curse like an injured sailor with a mask on than off. 

I didn’t mean to whisper such foul language in the presence of donuts, croissants and tartes, but in my defense, I also hadn’t expected to pay nearly $50 for two pumpkin pies at a local kosher bakery. 

There are two types of Jews who keep kosher: those who were raised with kosher food from birth and have zero frame of reference for what it’s like to lock yourself in the car at 10 p.m. with an In-N-Out Burger and fries, animal-style (with sauce, melted cheese and grilled onions). And then, there are those who used to eat treif, but who now make a conscious choice to keep kosher and are forced to pay exorbitantly high prices. I belong to the second category, hence, the cursing. 

The reality for me and other Jews who now keep kosher is that we remember the lower prices of non-kosher food. This explains why I know that even the fanciest pumpkin pie at a large supermarket, such as Vons, costs no more than $9.99. On Instacart, a pumpkin pie costs $4.79. It has a symbol of kosher certification, but that doesn’t help me, because that symbol comes with a tiny “D,” signifying that it has dairy ingredients. 

As a Jew who has adhered to kosher dietary laws for over a decade, I don’t mix dairy and meat foods, and I can’t eat the former after consuming the latter. In plain terms, this means that I always need a parve (dairy-free) pumpkin pie at the end of that Thanksgiving meal of (kosher) turkey, (kosher) stuffing, and Basmati rice with saffron. Yes, saffron rice. I’m an Iranian American, after all. 

Last year, I paid $23 per pumpkin pie at a kosher bakery. I sliced each pie into six pieces and, to my horror, my son dropped one slice on the floor. That was almost $4 worth of pie. To put things in perspective, one slice of kosher, parve pumpkin pie costs almost as much as an entire dairy pie on Instacart.

And I haven’t even mentioned the turkey yet. Whether at Target or Vons, a 20-pound Butterball turkey costs $1.99 per pound. This year’s price at local kosher markets averages $4.50 per pound. Chances are that there’s a $90 turkey on each kosher Thanksgiving table in Los Angeles this year. Several days ago, I was almost tempted to buy the biggest kosher chicken I could find and pass it off as a malnourished turkey. 

Can I afford a $90 turkey and $50 for two pumpkin pies once a year? I’m blessed to be able to say “yes.” My husband and I will still be able to make mortgage payments and buy 30 pounds of Persian cucumbers for the week. But that doesn’t change the fact that having to pay two-and-a-half times more for a whole kosher turkey is just plain wrong.

And what about families who keep kosher and can’t afford such skyrocketing prices? Sadly, we’re facing a pandemic and unprecedented supply shortages. I’m not entirely blaming kosher businesses, but I draw the line at paying $50 for two pumpkin pies. 

And what about families who keep kosher and can’t afford such skyrocketing prices? Sadly, we’re facing a pandemic and unprecedented supply shortages. I’m not entirely blaming kosher businesses, but I draw the line at paying $50 for two pumpkin pies. 

There’s also the problem of stuffing. I love stuffing. In America, I grew up on Stove Top boxed stuffing. You know, the famous red box that’s addictively delicious and full of preservatives. Once I started keeping kosher, I really missed Stove Top. Most boxes of kosher stuffing taste like celery, onion, and chalk. 

The solution? I make my own stuffing. The only problem is that a loaf of pre-sliced kosher bread costs $11, and a pack of kosher sausage sets me back $10. Fortunately, I’m able to use the excess celery stalks as garnishes for one Bloody Mary after another, all for myself. 

I understand why some kosher foods cost so much. After speaking with several kosher restaurant owners and caterers in Los Angeles, none of whom asked to be named, it’s also apparent that the cost of having a mashgiach (a Jew who is paid to supervise the kosher adherence of a food establishment) in the kitchen is also a huge financial burden. 

Ask most Jews who keep kosher why they’re willing to pay so much more and they’ll respond that you can’t put a price on the importance of keeping kosher for yourself, your family, and your guests. And that’s the problem. Everyone in the kosher food business, whether a restaurant owner or a mashgiach, knows that Jews who keep kosher don’t have a choice. We eat kosher, period. And on Thanksgiving, it’s parve pumpkin pie or a disappointing tray of sliced fruit, at least in my case. I don’t bake.  

Each November, I contemplate vegetarianism (the ethical arguments for not consuming meat also weigh on my mind each year). I wonder whether I could enjoy soy “turkey” meat, followed by a giant slice of dairy pumpkin pie, made with real cream and butter, just as God and Sara Lee intended.

This year, Hanukkah starts three days after Thanksgiving. My poor wallet. My kids don’t get eight-nights’ worth of presents, but I love to buy them, as well as their teachers and my family and friends, little gifts here and there. I’m also forced to buy one dozen kosher Hanukkah donuts for $25. In truth, I buy them for myself and hide the box under my bed. It’s a perfect fit.  

Imagine asking the average non-Jew on the street to pay $25 for a box of donuts. They’d have to be filled with edible gold, rather than jelly or custard, for anyone to agree to such a price. For that matter, imagine asking the same person to pay $24 for a   cheese pizza, without toppings. But the shanda of kosher pizza prices is best left for another column. 

For the record, I love keeping kosher because I feel I’m doing the right thing, and doing the right thing always makes me happy. But it’s not cheap. 

If only Thanksgiving leftovers could be made into Hanukkah foods. Turkey gelt doesn’t sound appetizing, but a creative chef could use leftover mashed potatoes to make latkes. Of course, they would have to have been made in a parve pan to be eaten with sour cream. Yes, my head hurts at the thought of this. 

Maybe this Hanukkah, I’ll attempt to make my own Hanukkah donuts, or sufganiyot. I’d rather do something else, but it looks like I have bigger fish, I mean dough, to fry.

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker, and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby