With this pot of beans, she would say to herself and the Jewish people that henceforth she would no longer light a fire on Shabbat -- that she needed a recipe for a meal which would cook all night, because she had taken this significant step.

And she wanted to let me know.

Just as I had wanted to let someone else know when I was ready for a pot of cholent. Back then, four years ago, before the classes and courses, before the conversations, the study and the practice, back when I leaned heavily on someone else, I, too, called for recipes. And there was someone who answered. There was a woman who understood more than my surface questions, an individual who led me gently through the maze of rituals, who gave me confidence. And it was she who gave me my first taste of cholent.

So I cried when I received the call. I cried with joy at the evidence of continuity, of a heritage dating back three thousand years. I smiled as I gave her my recipe and listened while she thanked me profusely, just as I had thanked someone else four years ago.

Then I heard her ask how she could repay me for the help she thought I'd given -- just as I had wanted to repay another. And I answered with the answer that was given to me. I told her that her call was my reward. She said she did not understand. "You will," I promised, "someday soon. When, on a dreary winter morning, your phone rings with someone wanting to know your recipe for cholent."

From Behind the Lines, by Anne Gottleib, Bristol, Rhein and Englander