After the last essay about the different traditions of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year, I decided to take a deeper look at the entire concept of food items as symbols.
Surely we are not unique in eating our symbols.
Then I remembered last January in Singapore. The city was awash in red. Lanterns swung above the streets, shops glowed with gilt paper, and every threshold seemed to have a bowl of mandarin oranges. Their scent caught in the humid air. I asked one of the hotel staff why the oranges everywhere, and the answer came with a smile: oranges are gold, gold is wealth, and to offer one is to wish prosperity. A fruit becomes a blessing for the Chinese new year.
Mandarins at Singapore city hall, January 2025
The idea stuck with me. The way a single piece of fruit could carry so much — wealth, fortune, luck — not because of its taste but because of what it stood for. An edible emoji. And at the time it reminded me of my own cultural background, and especially at this time of the new year, where food as symbol is not the exception but the rule.
But not only at this time. All year long, pretty much from birth to death. We do it in grief: lentils in mourning, round and endless, no beginning and no end. We do it on the Sabbath, breaking bread and lifting wine as blessings. After the sabbath, when we light a candle, but also drink wine and bless the pomander of cloves.
At Passover, we dip parsley in salt water, tasting tears before telling the story of liberation, etcetera etcetera. Food is our vocabulary, the script we pass from table to table, generation to generation.
Why Symbols at all?
Good question. After the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE, Judaism had to reinvent itself. Sacrifices and pilgrimage were no longer possible; prayer became the replacement. Rituals had to be portable. You packed a suitcase and totel your beliefs wherever life took you. The ritual needed to survive in exile, far from the ruins of Jerusalem.
Food became one of the most vivid carriers of meaning. And they were laid symbolically on the family table - tastes, textures, puns — to give the holiday form and content. The table became the liturgy.
A Global Language
As we have seen, this idea isn’t unique to Judaism, and not unique to the Jewish new year. Around the world, New Year celebrations come with foods that act as edible omens.
In Japan, people eat toshikoshi soba — long buckwheat noodles whose very length signals longevity. To cut them short would be to cut life itself. In Italy, lentils are eaten at midnight; their coin-like shape promises wealth. In Greece, the vasilopita cake comes with a hidden coin, luck to the one who finds it. In Spain and across Latin America, twelve grapes are eaten at the stroke of midnight — one for each month to come.
In the American South, Hoppin’ John — black-eyed peas and rice — is eaten for prosperity, the peas swelling like wealth in the pot, greens on the side representing paper money.
Everywhere you look, the new year tastes of hope. Shapes, colours, sounds, harvest cycles — all carry meaning. Sometimes it’s about appearance: lentils look like coins, so Italians eat them for wealth. Sometimes it’s about seasonality: pomegranates burst into ripeness just as the Jewish New Year begins, so they become a natural emblem of abundance. And sometimes it’s about language itself. A homophone — a word that sounds like another but means something different — turns a carrot, leek, or fish into an edible pun. In Chinese, “fish” (yú) sounds like “surplus” (yú), so a whole fish means a year of plenty. In the Jewish tradition, “leek” (karti in Aramaic) echoes “yikartu,” “cut off,” a wish for one’s enemies to fall. Different languages, different foods — but the intent is the same: to sweeten fate, to bind a community with blessings they can chew.
The original Jewish List
In the Talmud, food often carries layered meaning. About 1,700 years ago, the 4th-century sage Abayé offered what we might call the earliest “menu” for Rosh Hashanah. He suggested placing certain simanim — “signs” — on the table, everyday foods whose names echoed hopeful words in Aramaic, the common language of the time..
Gourd (qara) — linked to yikra (“be torn away”): a hope that misfortune be removed.
Leek (karti) — from yikartu (“be cut off”): that enemies would fall.
Beets (silka) — from yistalku (“depart”): that adversaries would disappear.
Dates (tamri) — from yitammu (“be finished”): that hardship would end.
Notice what’s missing: no apples, no honey, no pomegranates.
The core symbols were vegetables, greens, fruit. And not necessarily sweet.
Humble foods that, through wordplay, became omens.
The Romans had a saying: nomen est omen — a name is an omen. They believed names carried destiny, that to be called Felix meant you might be lucky, or Rufus meant you would be red-haired. Jews took the same logic and placed it on the table. In the Talmudic list of simanim, foods were chosen not for flavour but for the way their names echoed blessings in Aramaic.
A leek wasn’t just a leek; karti sounded like yikartu — “cut off” — so the leek became an edible wish that enemies be cut down. A gourd (qara) meant tearing up bad decrees. In other words, nomen est omen became menu est omen.
The Apple Dipped in Honey
The famous apple in honey is not ancient at all. It is a later European invention — just as the “apple of knowledge” in the Garden of Eden is actually a European interpretation (shhh…don’t tell Apple.com).
In medieval Ashkenazi communities of northern Europe, apples were abundant and honey symbolized divine sweetness. Together they made a natural emblem for the year ahead. Once medieval Jewish law books recorded the custom, it took root. Tradition, once written, tends to stay.
A wall of Swiss apples, each one named — photographed by me at Basel’s Markthalle, 2023. A reminder that even the simplest siman of Rosh Hashanah, the apple, carries a world of varieties, stories, and tastes.
By the 20th century, when Ashkenazi food became the popular image of “Jewish food” in America, apple and honey rose to fame as the global poster image of Rosh Hashanah. Ask most people today what Jews eat at the Jewish New Year, and that’s the answer.
Funny story: I once had non-Jewish friends in Toronto who were absolutely convinced that eating Chinese food to break the Yom Kippur fast was an ancient Jewish custom. In a way, it shows how quickly food habits become rituals, how easily a menu turns into identity.
The Pomegranate Myth
Pomegranate, too, is a later addition. Beautiful to look at, it carries a famous claim: that every pomegranate has exactly 613 seeds, said to correspond to the 613 commandments found in Jewish law.
But this is more poetry than botany. The Talmud — the central library of Jewish law, lore, and debate compiled around 1,500 years ago — praises the fruit for being “full of seeds,” a metaphor for abundance and virtue, but it never specifies the number 613. Later commentators picked up the metaphor and attached it more firmly to the number. Modern science shows that seed counts vary wildly, anywhere from 200 to 1,400 depending on variety and size.
So no, every pomegranate does not secretly carry a cosmic abacus. But the image endures because it is beautiful: a wish that one’s good deeds and blessings be as full and plentiful as the seeds of a pomegranate. Symbol trumps statistic.
The Sephardi and Mizrahi Table
Meanwhile, across the Levant and North Africa, Jewish families preserved the much older, richer ritual of symbolic foods at Rosh Hashanah. This wasn’t about apples or honey — those came much later in Europe. Here the table itself became the liturgy.
Foods were laid out one by one, each paired with a blessing, each bite a prayer:
Dates — that enemies and troubles come to an end. Halved yellow dates (balah) were especially common in Iraq and Persia.
Leeks — that adversaries be cut off.
Beets or chard — that afflictions depart.
Gourd or squash — that bad decrees be torn up, or merits proclaimed.
Black-eyed peas or fenugreek (rubia) — for plenty and increase.
Fish or lamb head — that we be the head, not the tail.
This ritual meal was less a menu than a living poem, a series of edible omens spoken through vegetables and fruits. Each wordplay turned local produce into portable prayer. From Morocco to Iraq, this ritual meal was less a menu than a living poem — a sequence of edible omens, spoken through vegetables and fruit. And naturally, once the blessings were said, the subsequent dishes carried those same ingredients forward. These were edible emojis long before the digital age: symbols of hope you could chew.
Ashkenazi Dominance
So why did this ritual disappear from view? Because in the modern imagination of Jewish food — forged in the delis of New York, the cookbooks of Eastern Europe, the kitchens of Warsaw and Vilnius — Ashkenazi traditions became the default. Gefilte fish, brisket, kugel, bagels, matzah-ball soup: these became the global image of Jewish cuisine. And apple and honey became the image of Jewish symbology.
Eastern traditions — pumpkin stews, leek fritters, fig cakes, date rituals — stayed in the margins, practiced but not publicized. Even in Israel, Ashkenazi imagery dominated early statehood before Levantine roots reasserted themselves.
Be that as it may, across the spectrum — Ashkenazi or Sephardi, Iraqi or Moroccan — the idea is the same. Food as omen. Food as hope. Food as portable prayer. Each community drew on its own regional produce to symbolize its aspirations for the new year. The diversity reflects the breadth of the Jewish diaspora, but the uniformity of the idea shows its strength: unity through shared ritual.
🥬 Leek Fritters (Keftes de Prasa)
A blessing you can bite
Leeks (karti in Aramaic) have been part of the Rosh Hashanah table since the Talmud, their name echoing yikartu — “may they be cut off,” a hope that troubles and enemies would fall away in the new year.
When the Jews of Spain were expelled in 1492, many found refuge in the Ottoman Empire, where they were welcomed in cities like Istanbul, Salonika, and Izmir. There, symbolism met survival. Leeks were folded with onion and egg, bound with crumbs, and fried in oil into golden patties known in Ladino as keftes de prasa. Crisp at the edges, tender within, they carried the old pun into a new world.
What began as a wordplay became a tradition — and then a delicacy. In Ottoman and Turkish Jewish kitchens, the humble leek transformed from a pun on misfortune into comfort food, a dish of hope disguised as fritters.
This version stays vegetarian and pan-fried in olive oil, lighter than the traditional deep-fried patties but no less satisfying.
Serves: 6–8 | Time: 1 hour
Ingredients
4 large leeks (white and pale green parts only)
1 large onion, diced
2 eggs (or 2 extra potatoes for vegan)
1 cup breadcrumbs (more as needed)
⅓ cup parsley, finely chopped, more for garnish
1 tsp salt (or to taste)
½ tsp black pepper (or to taste)
Olive oil, for shallow frying
Method
Prep leeks: Trim the dark green tops and root ends, leaving only the white stalk. slit along the length of the stalk and take of the outer skin. Slice into 1 cm rings, rinse thoroughly and drain.
chop onion into cubes.
Cook base: In a saucepan, cover leeks, onion with water. Add a pinch of salt. Bring to aboil and simmer until very soft (30–40 min). Drain well.
Mash & mix: Squeeze out twice excess liquid from the leeks and onion. Combine all in a bowl with eggs (or extra potato), parsley, salt, and pepper. Add breadcrumbs gradually, and mix until you have a soft but shape-holding mixture.
Form fritters: Shape into small balls and flatten slightly into patties.
Pan-fry: Heat olive oil in a skillet. Fry fritters until golden brown on both sides. Drain briefly on paper towel.
Yoghurt Salad (for Leek Cutlets)
Ingredients
2 cups plain yoghurt
2 garlic cloves, minced
¼ cup chopped parsley or dill (or both)
2 cucumbers, diced
½ cup cherry tomatoes, quartered
1 tsp salt, or to taste
½ tsp black pepper (or to taste)
Juice of 1 lemon
Method
Mix all ingredients in a bowl until combined.
Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and lemon juice to your liking.
Serve immediately or chill until needed.
Serve: Warm, with yoghurt sauce spooned over the cutlets.
Decorate with chopped parsley.
Notes
Keep the seasoning simple — strong spices can mask the leek’s delicate flavour.
Vegan version binds with mashed potato instead of eggs.
Best eaten hot, but also excellent reheated the next day.
Golden leek cutlets — crisp, tender, and symbolic. Topped with a fresh yogurt salad of cucumber, tomato, herbs, and garlic, this Turkish Jewish classic brings the blessings of Rosh Hashanah to the table.
✨ A dish born in Jewish kitchens of the Ottoman Empire, carrying a prayer from the Talmud to the holiday table.
A Salad of Signs
So where does that leave us today? For me, with a question: if Jews are one people of many traditions, why not bring the symbols together in one dish?
Instead of laying them out one by one and sparking the old debate over which is most authentic, I’ve gathered them in a single bowl. A salad of signs, of edible emojis. A dish where every bite carries a blessing.
Call it the Rosh Hashanah Edible Emoji Salad — symbolizing unity so needed in our times.
It takes all the classic “signs” — pumpkin, leeks, black-eyed peas, pomegranate, dates, beets, carrots, apples — and layers them into one vibrant mosaic of colours and textures (all except the fish or lamb’s head, which belongs more in The Godfather than in a festive salad, but you get the idea). Instead of separation, combination. Instead of argument, unity.
The dressing comes from Persia, where Jews once pressed pomegranate juice into a tangy walnut sauce called seerabeh. Traditionally it was spooned over fish on the Caspian coast, but here it is repurposed as a dressing: pink, nutty, sharp, poured over the salad like a liquid blessing. Each drizzle is a prayer in sauce.
It isn’t traditional. But then again, tradition itself was once invention. Apples and honey were new once too.
This is Rosh Hashanah reimagined: not just one fruit, not just one symbol, but the whole spectrum of edible emojis gathered into one bowl.
🥗 Rosh Hashanah Edible emoji Salad
An olive-branch salad of Jewish unity
Serves: 6–8 | Time: 40 minutes
Ingredients
Salad
1 red beet, roasted and mandoline-sliced (removal of misfortune)
1 yellow beet, roasted and mandoline-sliced
2 carrots (1 orange, 1 yellow), peeled into ribbons
2–3 raw yellow dates, halved (sweetness and continuity)
250 g roasted pumpkin, thin half-moons (renewal and hope)
1 celery stalk, sliced into thin rings (strength and abundance)
200 g cooked black-eyed peas (plenty and prosperity)
Seeds of 1 pomegranate (a year as full as its seeds)
1 Pink Lady apple, quartered and thinly sliced with peel (sweetness of life)
A handful of walnuts, toasted and roughly broken (strength and wisdom)
1 small head radicchio, leaves separated (bitterness transformed)
1 small romaine lettuce, leaves separated
1 handful arugula leaves
1 handful sorrel leaves (sharpness, cleansing)
2 cups mixed herbs: parsley, dill, mint, coriander
1 bunch green onions, sliced
Pink micro-flowers, to garnish (beauty, blessing, joy)
Dressing (Persian-inspired seerabeh)
1 cup pomegranate juice
½ cup pomegranate seeds
¼ cup walnut halves
2 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp black pepper
2 tbsp fresh coriander leaves
1 tbsp fresh mint leaves
1 tbsp fresh parsley leaves
2 tbsp olive oil
Pinch of sugar (optional, to balance)
Method
1. Roast the vegetables
Heat oven to 200 °C / 400 °F. Roast the beets and pumpkin separately until tender. Let cool slightly, then slice: beets into thin rounds, pumpkin into half-moons.
2. Make the dressing
In a blender, combine pomegranate juice, seeds, walnuts, garlic, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Blend until smooth. Add herbs and blend again. With the motor running, drizzle in olive oil. Adjust with sugar or lemon. Chill at least 1 hour to let flavors meld.
3. Assemble the salad
On a large platter, scatter the lettuce, radicchio, arugula, and sorrel as a base. Layer on the roasted beets, pumpkin slices, carrot ribbons, halved dates, celery rings, black-eyed peas, pomegranate seeds, apple slices, walnuts, and green onions.
4. Dress and serve
Drizzle generously with the walnut-pomegranate dressing. Finish with a scatter of extra pomegranate seeds, herbs, and pink micro-flowers. Serve at once — each forkful a taste of blessing.
✨ Every bite carries a blessing. Every color tells a story. Together, they taste like hope.
👉 Rosh Hashanah edible emoji Salad
Conclusion
Every culture finds ways to eat its hopes. In Singapore and China, mandarins for gold. In Italy, lentils for coins. In America, black-eyed peas swelling in the pot. In Judaism, the simanim, signs — puns and prayers made edible.
Apples, dates, leeks, pumpkins, peas: each food is a word in a language of longing. Different tongues, same story.
And in the end, perhaps the most symbolic dish of all is the simplest: a salad that gathers them together. A Unity Salad of edible emojis. Because if food is our script, then this is our chorus.
✨ Every bite carries a blessing. Every colour tells a story. And together, they taste like hope.
Shana tova to all — may your year be as sweet as honey, as full as a pomegranate, and as colorful as this salad.
Beautifully written,interesting and so full of information. I love to read about how each food from all over the world became a symbol at the Rosh ha Shanah through out our Jewish history. Thank you for your articles.
Your photos are gorgeous, Elli! Food opens up so many doors from the past, nice article.