Milk and Memory
The cheese aisle is my happy place. And last Sunday, standing there in No Frills, I found myself beaming with irrational joy.
Because there — at the very bottom of the cold case, buried beneath bags of mozzarella and mysterious teal Monterrey Jack — lay the holy grail of solidified milk: Haloumi.
Semi-soft. Unripened. And, miraculously, kosher.
Now, my first reason for happiness was obvious. Shavuot — the dairy holiday — was on its way. What better way to mark the giving of the Torah than with a cheese that defies the laws of meltability and sizzles proudly in a frying pan with olive oil?
But the second reason — the one that caught in the throat — is that Haloumi brings me back. Back to a little café in Katamon, Jerusalem. Back to the year Debra and I spent in Israel — no kids, no car seats, just us. Our honeymoon year. Our salad-with-Haloumi year.
Now, many of you have asked me recently: why dairy on Shavuot? There are plenty of answers. Some midrashic, some halakhic, some kabbalistic. None, alas, cite it as a divine prank on the famously lactose-intolerant Ashkenazim.
But today, I don’t just want to teach you. As we approach Yizkor — as we prepare to remember — I want to invite you into these explanations not just as commentary, but as comfort.
Because behind every dairy dish is not just a law or a legend. There’s a way to understand grief — yours, and mine.
This is the initial Yizkor since the first yahrzeit of Cantor Sharpe’s father, Lionel z”l, of Rabbi Seed’s father, Milton z”l, and of my father, Barry z”l.
There’s a custom not to say Yizkor in the first year of mourning. Some say it’s to protect the mourner from a flood of tears that might overwhelm the joy of the festival.
In truth, that explanation never sat right with me, and absence during Yizkor would have been a little conspicuous. So I said Yizkor.
But now that the first yahrzeit has passed, something has changed.
The pain isn’t as sharp. The tears don’t come as quickly. But the longing? The longing has grown deeper.
The most famous explanation for dairy on Shavuot comes from Shir HaShirim — the Song of Songs. דְּבַשׁ וְחָלָב תַּחַת לְשׁוֹנֵךְ - Honey and milk are under your tongue. (4:11)
Midrashicly, we understand the Milk and Honey as Torah, whose giving on Shavuot we celebrate and whose existence always is nourishing.
And today, as we remember, many of us are thinking of the ones who gave us that first bottle, that first bite. The ones whose love — like milk — was pure. Unquestioning. Undiluted.
Torah means “instruction.” And today we remember the people whose Torah still lives within us.
“Milk and honey” is not just a metaphor— but also a description of the Land of Israel, one that appears 20 times in the Torah – the text we celebrate today. Israel is land not of, but flowing with, Milk and Honey.
In addition to dairy foods, some communities have the custom of adding honey to their Shavuot fare. Middle Eastern Jews, for example, eat ruz ib assal, a honey and milk rice pudding.
Milk and honey are a poetic combination. But more than that, they’re a poignant one.
Milk flows fast. Spill it, and there goes the bag.
Honey? Honey moves slowly. Thick. Reluctant.
And so too our tears.
Some of us cry like milk — freely, suddenly. The pain spills over.
Others cry like honey — slowly, hesitantly. The tears take time.
But both are sacred. Both are valid.
We are a people of milk. And we are a people of honey.
Another explanation for dairy is halakhic.
On Shavuot, the Israelites were suddenly told: the rules have changed. All your meat? Treif. The utensils? Treif. The foodways you knew? Gone.
So what do they do? They pivot. They eat dairy. No wasting time with all that slaughtering, and bloodletting, and salting. Dairy is easier. It’s immediate.
I think of this rule change and I think about life after my father died.
Even though he’d been sick. Even though we had time to prepare. Still — when it came — the world shifted.
The daily rhythm — changed. The instinct to call — thwarted. The voice — no longer there.
And I had to learn, like we all do, how to move forward in a world that looks the same… but isn’t.
Like the Israelites, we had to improvise. Rely on others. Find new vessels. Create new rituals.
It wasn’t easy. It isn’t.
But it’s necessary.
The kabbalists offer one more explanation.
What’s the gematria for חלב — milk? ח = 8. ל = 30. ב = 2. 8+30+2=40. Forty days on Sinai. Forty days receiving Torah.
I think of the nights I’d lie on my father’s bed – him teaching me math. Numbers, patterns, and occasionally patience. It was something we both enjoyed, until, admittedly, sometimes I didn’t.
The Israelites counted days until Moses’ return. And we count the omer. But we also count memories. Hopefully all wonderful. Sometimes, well… not.
For some, Yizkor is not simple.
There are relationships that were strained, if not broken.
After forty days on the mountain, Moses returns and only to discover betrayal. He shatters the tablets.
But — and this is crucial — he doesn’t throw them away.
He gathers the shards.
And they are placed in the Ark, right next to the second set.
Wholeness and brokenness — together.
Because even what is broken remains holy.
Even what is fractured can be remembered.
Now, I like all these explanations. I think they’re beautiful.
But can I let you in on a little secret?
They’re all post-facto. Elegant justifications for a very simple truth.
We eat dairy on Shavuot because it’s the season.
Spring grasses are abundant. Animals are producing milk. Their little ones are weaning, leaving more to us humans.
Our traditions, it turns out, aren’t always grounded in deep, beautiful, uplifting meaning. Sometimes they are no more than the circumstances of nature.
And I think Yizkor is like that, too.
At its most basic, we say Yizkor because we exist.
Someone made us and our siblings too. And we say Yizkor for children because we too created life.
The exception? A spouse. A partner. That’s a relationship of choice. As is an adopted child.
But everything else — it’s biological. It’s elemental. It’s circumstantial.
And yet — and yet — we don't stop there.
We don’t just say: “I remember you because I have to.”
We say: “I remember you because you mattered.”
Because you loved me. Because you shaped me. Because you were, and are, part of me.
We build reasons on top of instincts.
We add purpose to what is natural.
We choose meaning.
And that’s what makes Yizkor holy.
So this Shavuot — whether it’s Haloumi or Havarti or a humble piece of cheesecake — may your table be full.
May your Torah be sweet as honey.
And as you stand now in the sacred hush of Yizkor —
May your memories nourish you.
May your grief guide you.
And like milk— may your love flow.
