Dawn Ler­man spent her child­hood hun­gry: crav­ing good food while her over­weight father pur­sued an end­less stream of fad diets; starved for atten­tion as her moth­er focused on Dawn’s sis­ter. Her Bubbe Mary believed she could stuff the fam­i­ly full of love at the hol­i­day table with roast tongue, pick­led her­ring, rolled cab­bage, and pop­py chal­lah — she so believed in the heal­ing pow­ers of her Jew­ish cook­ing that when her son was in a coma she schlepped food to the hos­pi­tal dai­ly in hopes that the aro­mas would revive him. But Dawn longed for more than the occa­sion­al schmaltz-filled din­ner could pro­vide. It was only her mater­nal grand­moth­er, Beau­ty, who gave her a taste of the nor­mal, nur­tur­ing home she des­per­ate­ly need­ed. Breath­ing in the scent of fresh dill or mak­ing a batch of noo­dle kugel with gold­en raisins, Dawn learned that good food could be the glue that held her fam­i­ly togeth­er. Dawn reflects on her upbring­ing and how food shaped her con­nec­tion to her fam­i­ly, her Jew­ish her­itage, and herself.