By Passover begins Friday evening and the house is ready — the table set for fourteen, the kitchen transformed, the brisket marinating, the matzo balls rolled and waiting. Fourteen people this year: the full family (me, Marvin, David, Jennifer, Ethan, Sophie, Noah, Hannah), Rebecca and Thomas, Gloria, Janet, Harriet, and Sol. Fourteen. A good number. A manageable number. A number that requires the leaf in the table and the extra chairs from the garage and the specific logistical planning of a woman who has hosted this dinner for forty years and who knows, down to the inch, how many bodies this dining room can hold.
Ethan will ask the four questions this year — he is seven, still the youngest who can read, though Sophie at five is learning and will be ready next year. I coached him on the pronunciation, sitting at the kitchen table on Wednesday afternoon, the two of us with the Haggadah between us, his small voice working through the Hebrew with the careful attention of a child who has been told this matters and who believes it. "Why is this night different from all other nights?" he asked, in Hebrew, and I thought: because you are asking. Because a seven-year-old boy in a kitchen in Oceanside is asking a question that was first asked three thousand years ago by children in a desert, and the asking is the point, and the question has no answer except the story, and the story is the answer, and the answer is: we were slaves. We were freed. We eat the matzo. We remember. We ask.
I made charoset on Thursday — the sweet paste that represents mortar, the paste that turns slavery into sweetness, the paste that is apples and walnuts and wine and cinnamon and the insistence that even the worst parts of the story can be made edible. The charoset is on the seder plate. The plate is on the table. The table is set. The candles are ready. The brisket is in the oven. Passover begins. The chain continues.
With the charoset made and the seder plate set, I always find myself wanting one more thing on the table — something vivid and celebratory that signals abundance before the first question is even asked. This beet hummus has become that dish for me: its deep, jewel-toned color feels almost ceremonial next to the matzo and the candles, and it’s something the adults reach for while the children are still finding their seats. After forty years of hosting this table, I’ve learned that the food before the meal matters just as much as the meal itself — and this one never fails to draw someone in from the kitchen.
Beet Hummus
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 medium beets, scrubbed and trimmed
- 1 can (15 oz) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
- 3 tablespoons tahini
- 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
- 1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
- 2–4 tablespoons water, to adjust consistency
- Fresh parsley or sesame seeds, for garnish
Instructions
- Roast the beets. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Wrap each beet individually in foil and place on a baking sheet. Roast for 40–45 minutes, until a knife slides in easily. Let cool, then peel and roughly chop.
- Blend the base. In a food processor, combine the roasted beets, chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, cumin, and salt. Process for about 1 minute until the mixture begins to come together.
- Adjust the texture. With the processor running, add water one tablespoon at a time until the hummus reaches a smooth, creamy consistency. Taste and adjust salt or lemon juice as needed.
- Finish and serve. Transfer to a serving bowl. Drizzle with olive oil and garnish with fresh parsley or a sprinkle of sesame seeds. Serve with matzo, pita, or sliced vegetables.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 130 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 180mg