In Grandpa’s Salad We Trust.
February 2000. Was there a grand birthday? A special anniversary? Some milestone worth toasting with too much food and not enough chairs?
Honestly, writing this now in 2025—I have absolutely no idea what the big occasion was.
But knowing my family, any excuse was a good excuse for a celebration.
And when my mum was in charge, you could bet your last bureka it was going to be grand, festive, and bursting at the seams with food, people, and love.
Luckily, the celebration landed smack in the middle of the Dutch Crocus Vakantie.
That charming little February school break when the crocuses should be blooming (though in Holland, you’re more likely to see rain or sleet than flowers).
Thom had a break from kindergarten and Yoni and I had no workshops or trainings lined up.
So I thought: Why not pack up and head to Israel for two whole weeks of family, sunshine, and chaos?
We spent the first week in Rehovot with Yoni’s family.
Thom was immediately swept up into the loving arms of her grandparents, aunts, and her soul buddy—Uncle Nir.
Yoni’s sisters, Smadi and Sigi, were on a mission to show Thom all their childhood haunts, starting with the legendary “Plastic Playground”—a magical (if slightly sun-faded) wonderland of plastic climbing structures, swings, and merry-go-rounds.
Between games, stories, cuddles, and lots of silliness, Thom was soaking in the kind of family attention that only a tight-knit Israeli clan can provide.
Whether it was Grandpa Dani reading her stories or Grandma Nitza allowing her to “help” in the kitchen, she was blissfully at home.
Then came week two—Jerusalem and my side of the family. If Yoni’s family was a warm hug, mine was a full-on group tackle.
My family is big. Not just “let’s pull up two extra chairs” big. I mean 80-people-at-a-small-gathering big.
Compared to Yoni’s cozy circle of parents and sisters, walking into one of our family weekends felt like arriving at a festival you didn’t know you were headlining.
For Thom, whose world mostly consisted of Yoni, me, and the occasional visit to Aunt Keren, it was a bit overwhelming at first. So many new faces.
So many loud greetings and pinched cheeks. So many people calling themselves “family.”
But she took it like a champ. In no time, she was bonding with her cousin Or, cooing at baby Eden.
But most of all, running wild with Ido—my cousin’s son who was just six months younger than her. They were partners-in-play from the start.
That weekend was pure family mayhem—in the best way.
Stories were read (by everyone), games were played (often loudly), and food was eaten (constantly).
And as always, my mum had prepared enough dishes to feed a battalion.
But amid the lavish spreads and homemade desserts, one thing stood out for Thom: my father’s simple Saturday morning salad.
Every Saturday, without fail, my dad would make his special salad—just tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and olives, chopped into impossibly small, perfect cubes, tossed in olive oil and a pinch of salt. That was it. No gimmicks, no fancy herbs. Just love, diced and served.
Thom adored it. Long after that trip, whenever she wanted comfort food, she didn’t ask for pizza or pasta—she asked for Grandpa Israel’s salad.
Of course, I could never dice like he did.
No one could. But the taste lingered. And more than that, the feeling lingered—the warmth of being surrounded by love, by stories, by generations of laughter and care. That salad became more than food. It became a memory.
A bite-sized reminder that no matter how far we lived, or how small our family-of-three felt back in Holland, there was always a big, noisy, loving tribe waiting for us in Jerusalem. And for a little girl growing up with cold winters and crocus breaks, that mattered more than words can say.
