February 4, 2025

In response to Hamas’ hideous brutality in orchestrating hostage releases amid ravenously bloodthirsty masses, as well as news that some of the hostages that Hamas will release to Israel will be dead, I decided to devote a column to pleading for radical Jewish self-love and self-care. 

Yes, I was going to plead with fellow Jews, including myself, to not let even the most devastating news or hideous images from Israel or Gaza break them. And it all started with a phone call to two friends whom I knew were not eating well or getting enough sleep because they were obsessed with refreshing their news feeds to know about the fate of the hostages, including two precious, red-haired children whose faces have broken our own hearts on social media and other campaigns since Oct. 7. Their father, Yarden Bibas, was released this week, and returned to Israel without his wife and sons. But the sight of his return, however joyous for so many, still signaled something deeply empty, and, perhaps, even ominous. 

I begged one friend who loves Israel, and who could barely bring herself to eat, to stock her refrigerator with at least one or two foods that brought her joy, whether a few slices of rich, chocolate cake or a truly great sandwich — you know, the kind of sandwich that gives all sandwiches a good name. 

I implored another friend to watch a few guilty pleasures on TV. Not violent dramas or morbid detective documentaries (there’s nothing wrong with dark entertainment, but this particular friend was on the verge of falling apart if she stepped too hard on a twig). She needed mindless, gratuitous entertainment; the kind of forget-reality, made-for-TV film that features a brilliant but stubborn single woman who meets an equally stubborn single man on a last-minute trip to Ireland, Alaska or Poughkeepsie. She’s a successful workaholic; he’s a surprisingly well-read farmhand. The most gratifying part of the movie is when they finally manage to get together. 

This, I convinced myself, is what I, my friends, and millions of other Jews needed: a great sandwich. A predictably feel-good movie. Warm whiskey, Fluffy socks. Yearnful prayer. An Epsom salt bath. Whenever a Jew is stressed, the answer is always prayer, a sandwich, and a warm Epsom salt bath. 

This column was going to be so convincing that it would almost be impossible to dispute its main point: When in doubt, a stressed-out, anxious, post-Oct. 7 Jew who is not eating, not sleeping, not spending enough time with family or friends or taking enough walks, should have only one thought in mind: Would news of one more deteriorating Jew make Hamas happy? If the answer is yes, then Jews must practice self-nourishment and take true joy in life. Now. 

It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Since Oct. 7, each time I have wondered whether I should decline an invitation to a simcha (a happy occasion) or put that container of real-cream chocolate mousse back on the supermarket shelf, I have only asked myself one question: Will that make Hamas happy?

This column was going to be one for the ages. It would be so timeless that generations of future stressed Jews would read it. “In 2025, columnist Tabby Refael wisely implored current and future generations of world Jewry to nourish themselves, their loved one and their communities,” Jews in 2050 would undoubtedly say to their AI overlords. 

I had this week’s column completely planned out. And then, I crawled into bed. 

I couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want a bath or a slice of cake or a deliciously bad made-for-TV film. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, had been butchered; some would be arriving back to Israel in body bags. And that was when I realized that not only was my overwhelming sense of sadness, grief, and helplessness appropriate, but that maybe, I didn’t want to feel better. Not at that moment. 

No, we can’t counter the thought of toddler-sized body bags with a decadent dessert. We can’t anticipate the sight of a tiny coffin, wrapped in an Israeli flag, being lowered into the ground, and respond with a bath. We are broken. And broken we may remain until we are ready to put parts of ourselves back together again. 

To be frank, I’m not sure I want to meet a Jew today who is 100% okay, skipping through life as if the screams of his brethren in Israel don’t exist. Maybe we don’t always want to eat. Or sleep. Or laugh. But though we are broken, it does not mean that we should actively look for ways to continue to break ourselves. 

On Oct. 7, Hamas broke a collective vessel of global Jewry that was already covered with patched-up cracks from millennia of persecution and trauma. But that doesn’t mean that we should take a metaphoric ice pick to ourselves as well. 

If, currently, you can’t sleep, at least eat well. If your diet is fine, get more sleep. Increase the number of friends you call each day by one (most of us will inevitably end up calling one friend a day). Replace 15 minutes of phone scrolling with reading a book or a magazine. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a historical fiction book, Popular Mechanics or the latest Trader Joe’s flyer filled with strange, nineteenth-century-style drawings — Jews are a People of the Book, not the phone. 

It is possible to exist in two spaces: one filled with sorrow for what was, and deep worry for what will be (released Palestinian murderers aren’t exactly embodiments of growth and teshuva), and another space filled with doing everyone one needs to continue living, and hopefully, thriving. 

If one anticipates eventually having to drive on a bumpy, terrible road, it doesn’t mean that they don’t change the oil, replace the filters, and clean the windshield for a better view. If anything, taking care of that vehicle before exposing it to a bumpy road and desolate terrain is more important to  ensure that it, and us, will make it through the journey in one piece.

I learned a lot from an X post by organizational psychologist and bestselling author Adam Grant, who wrote, “In hard times, urging people to stay positive doesn’t boost their resilience. It denies their reality. People in pain don’t need good vibes only. They need a hand to stay steady through all the vibrations. Strength doesn’t come from forced smiles. It comes from feeling supported.”

If reading that a former Palestinian prisoner who was sentenced to 35 – yes, 35 – life sentences for murdering Israelis was recently released makes you sick to your stomach, skip dinner. If you can’t focus during work or during a run/workout, take an hour off. Embrace this miserable, unjust pain. Just make sure to eventually let it go, at least temporarily. The chronic, historical discomfort of being a Jew is like a boomerang; it will always come back to you. But we can only hope that when it does return, we will be strong and nourished enough to receive it and throw it right back. Currently, I need a boomerang hit to the head like I need a colonoscopy administered in the dark.  

So, eat the cake, or don’t. Compulsively refresh that news site, or don’t. It’s February and we could all use a little “wintering.”

So, eat the cake, or don’t. Compulsively refresh that news site, or don’t. It’s February and we could all use a little “wintering,” a term coined by author Katherine May, whose 2020 memoir shares the same name. “Wintering” describes a time in life in which we experience both emotional and physical hibernation, a time of fallowness and literal cold in which we feel cut off from others, and from ourselves. 

But at the heart of “wintering” is an ebb and flow; a dim light of hopeful recognition that it won’t always be this hard or this bad. And in our case, a prayer that perhaps just once, that boomerang will somehow become lost, broken, or gone forever, never to return right back to us.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker and weekly columnist for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael.

Of all the insights offered by my first therapist, the one that still reverberates is that I am  “kitchen proud.” She accused me of caring so much about food that I was off-balance. I thought she was over-analyzing. So I turned it into a career.

The next 40 years were a whirlwind of developing recipes, writing cookbooks and feeding others. Occasionally I wondered: How could my self-esteem be so tied up with producing the best coconut cupcakes for an elementary school bake sale that I would give up sleep? I put my nose down and kept on cooking.

Eventually, with the kids gone and the hubby a vegetarian, my cooking slowed down. These days I rarely cook a dinner party completely from scratch. Instead I dress up various prepared foods on pretty platters, pick up a crusty sourdough bread from a bakery, select a good wine, and enjoy the conversation. Baking, on the other hand, I can’t give up. Nothing compares to making a French lemon tart or pound cake, a flourless chocolate cake, pistachio madeleines, or a simple apricot tart in the summer. My guests expect it and I enjoy the activity.

Unlike cooking from a recipe, which anyone who can read can do, baking takes practice. It’s a solo pursuit for perfectionists. The joy is in crafting something sublime out of the simplest ingredients—eggs, butter, sugar and flour. Baking takes precision, focus and the ability to move slowly and confidently through a list of ingredients and finicky techniques. There’s a reason the pastry station in fine restaurants is usually set in a quiet corner, away from the hustle of the line. It takes concentration. Even the best baker fails sometimes due to a mismeasurement, a forgotten ingredient, an urgent text, or the humidity in the room.

Being the cake lady in the neighborhood is like being Santa Claus. You have to show up with treats; people expect it. Adults revert to childhood around pretty cakes. You don’t have to be Freud to see the triggers. Cakes are perfectly round confections of pastry spread with chunks of juicy fruit, whipped cream, shredded coconut or nuts, and topped with waves of frosting, bright candles and happy messages.

They are the perfect food for sharing, though cutting into a cake is a tense moment for the baker. Once you pull out a slice, failures become evident. Occasionally they stick to the bottom, or they just collapse! Cakes are served at celebrations like weddings and birthday parties because, like a champagne toast, the ritual brings us together. For that reason I was never a fan of the cupcake tower.

This Hanukkah I had a chance to work my old magic. When a good friend invited us over for the first night I was so happy I decided to pull out all the stops. I made a favorite single layer dark chocolate orange torte topped with a glossy chocolate butter glaze. Pulling off this elegant flourless cake meant measuring tiny quantities, separating eggs, melting expensive chocolate, zesting an orange, using a thermometer, and then finally removing it from its pan while praying. It took several hours over two days to make.

It took several hours over two days to make.

Transporting my creation was a minutely planned operation. My husband has been trained. He knows to hold it with two hands while we take turns getting in and out of the car. He drives slowly, takes turns with care and is light on the brakes when pastry is onboard. To protect my cake from the bustle of latke-making in the kitchen when we arrived, I placed it on a high shelf and told the hostess to let me know when it was time to serve.

When the last latke was eaten my friend hoisted my dream cake in the air like an Olympic torch, cleared her throat and asked, “Are you ready to slice the cake?” Before I could stand, my creation took a nose dive off its sleek platter. Then, in slow motion, it did a double flip down a spiral staircase and crash landed, upside-down on the steps and walls. The whole disaster took 20 seconds.

I was broken. Guests got busy scraping frosting off the stairs and sweeping moist crumbs into dust pans. A few sliver-lining types even said that the hideous mess still tasted delicious. They swallowed crumbs to prove it. I suppose they were trying to help me feel better.

But recovery takes time. I’ve decided that the next time a friend asks me to bring a cake I’m buying a mix just like normal people do. The kind that takes 30 minutes to make and doesn’t serve your heart and soul on a cake platter. Promise you won’t tell anyone?

Los Angeles food writer Helene Siegel is the author of 40 cookbooks, including the “Totally Cookbook” series and “Pure Chocolate.” She runs the Pastry Session blog.