I couldn’t tell you the last time I had chicken soup. I’ve been ruminating on this for well over a year, ever since I first had the a-ha! moment of centering the comfort food in an analysis of Jewish food.

I remember eating chicken soup through my childhood with such vivid color. When I was maybe three years old, sick, and my mom served me broth in a sippy cup that I swear was purple. When I attended Jewish day school for Ruach Shabbat, a special Friday lunch that family could attend, served in a Styrofoam bowl. When I requested my dad transform the leftover soup chicken into a curry chicken salad that I could pack for lunch the next day. But I don’t remember the last time I did anything but smell stock bubbling on the stove.

I don't miss the taste of chicken soup; the viscosity of gelatinous schmaltz makes me wince. But I am nostalgic for it – for how it was Jewish Penicillin for when I felt ill, for how it meant that we were hosting a holiday dinner, for how it made me feel taken care of. It's nostalgia for family, for community, not a desire for religion in my life or nor a feeling that I ought to bond with fellow Jews. It's craving what chicken soup represents: home, family, history. 

I'm not alone in feeling this particular breed of soup sentimentality. Jewish-American Gen Z TikTok cooks and celebrity chefs alike fall back chicken soup's warmth. As they recreate their family recipes, they recapture that comfort.

As they explain their cooking, they share their Jewish-American identity. 

As they make matzo balls, they make meaning.