mfsalomon

During my first days at SoFAB, I felt a little bit lost. I knew I needed to talk to people, but I just didn’t know any Jewish food scholars at the time. So, I turned to the National Council of Jewish Women. I sent a few emails, but they didn’t garner much response. I didn’t think too much of it—these women were busy.

But a few days ago, I received a random phone call from a private number. Much to my surprise, it was the president of the Greater New Orleans chapter. Before I had a chance to talk about my project, we were playing a dazzling round of Jewish geography. She asked if I knew anyone involved in the council, and I briefly mentioned that my aunt was an active member. Miss Gail almost couldn’t contain her excitement: “What’s her name?!” When I told her that my aunt was Nicole Stone, she nearly shrieked. “I was in your aunt’s wedding! Are you René or Lavalle’s daughter?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. After a few minutes of gossip, she invited me to lunch. And now the story really comes full circle. Here I am, trying to figure out how Jewish food traditions mix with Southern culture, and the answer has been right in front of me the entire time. So, in a few days, I’ll go meet Miss Gail at a nice New Orleans restaurant and we’ll talk about what it means to be Jewish and Southern. But most importantly, we’ll eat.

So, during this last week of my internship, I’m just wrapping things up. Tomorrow I’ll hand over a flash drive loaded with exhibit plans, article summaries, and artifact captions, and my job will be done. But in reality, this project will never end. Every time I look through my grandmother’s recipe book or make my father’s gumbo or eat my weight in charoset, I’m adding to the history of Southern Jewish foodways. It’s powerful stuff, and I’m proud to be a part of it.

It may be hard to believe, but my time with SoFAB is more than halfway done. When I realized that last week, I freaked out. I thought of all the people I still needed to contact, the captions I needed to write, and the artifacts I had yet to collect. So, in a caffeine-induced panic, I sent out (what felt like) a million emails to museums, archives, restaurants, and historians.

However, after talking to my colleagues, we realized that we were all in the same boat. So, like all good interns do, we raided the fridge in the demonstration kitchen and took an extra-long lunch break. As we sat around munching on leftover tres leche cake and macaroons, we started to talk about current events.

We’d all heard about what happened to Alton Sterling two weeks ago, but the recent murder of three police officers in Baton Rouge added to our outrage. It hit me especially hard. I’ve always been proud of the fact that I’m from Baton Rouge; I take pride in football and Mardi Gras, jazz and gumbo. It was hard for all of us to believe that something so horribly violent, racist, and hate-induced could happen so close to home. But we talked about it. We discussed the importance of the Black Lives Matter Movement, criticized the violence within our communities, and brainstormed ways to improve public safety.

Some people may say that public historians shouldn’t discuss current issues—that we have no business talking about police brutality, systemic racism, and violence in our communities. However, I disagree. Public historians may love the past, but we certainly don’t live there. My job is to make history accessible, interesting, and relatable. And the only way we can do that is by discussing current problems, interacting with our communities, and being open to change. So, yes, captions and artifacts and emails are all really important, but so are Alton Sterling and those three police officers who were murdered while trying to serve their community.

In my first blog post, I outlined the basic timeline for my project at the Southern Food & Beverage Museum, name-dropped a few of my advisors, and briefly mentioned how researching Southern Jewish foodways made me feel more connected to my own heritage.

However, as time progressed and my project evolved, I started to realize how complicated public history can be. First of all, what story should I tell? Secondly, what objects represent that story? And most importantly, why aren’t people responding to my emails?

After completing my initial research, I started to contact different people, organizations, and restaurants that might be willing to donate items for the exhibit. Sending out emails to complete strangers is definitely nerve-racking; but, once you realize that these scholars, chefs, and business owners are just regular people who are also interested in Judaism and food, it gets a little easier.

Essentially, I’m trying to reach out to several people in each of the 15 Southern states and Washington, D.C. I’m looking for cookbooks, family recipes, vintage menus, old signs, and memorabilia—anything that can help me tell this story. While some of my emails seem to vanish in the large internet void, others garner immediate responses. And let me tell you, that feels amazing.

When someone emails me back saying that they want to participate in the project, I get so excited. I don’t really know how to describe it. I just feel very connected to these random people who are scattered across the country. We may be states apart, but we both care about Southern Jewish identity and foodways, and that’s pretty cool.

These past few weeks have definitely pushed me outside of my comfort zone. While I love having the freedom to pursue my project independently, it’s also sort of stressful. I’m used to having a lot more guidance. Even though it’s scary, I think I’m becoming more confident in my abilities as a public historian. I know I can research and write and communicate…and even send a professional email or two.

I just completed my first two weeks at the Southern Food and Beverage Museum; it’s an entire museum dedicated to my favorite things in my absolute favorite place in the world: New Orleans. On my first day, I realized I had gotten myself involved in something really special. My coworkers are bubbling over with warmth, enthusiasm, and passion. They want to talk to you about 19^th century privies, brothels, and the origins of whiskey. They can’t wait to tell you where to get the best po-boy, snowball, and chargrilled oysters. And, they’re eager to help you with your research.

So, where do I fit in? I’m one of five curatorial interns. My task is to research Southern Jewish foodways and create an exhibit by the end of the summer. Not only am I digging around databases compiling my own research, but I’m also gathering up artifacts, talking to local scholars, and curating my own space.

In the short time that I’ve been with the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, I’ve met with the President of the museum, Elizabeth Williams, schmoozed with Jordan Katz, an expert on Jewish history and PhD candidate at Columbia University in New York, and started to uncover the rich history surrounding southern food and Jewish culinary traditions.

This internship isn’t just some placeholder on my resume. These topics—Jewish history, women’s history, southern history, and food traditions—really resonate with me. While I may be uncovering fun facts for a museum exhibit, I’m also gaining a better understanding of my heritage and my place in this world. It’s absolutely fascinating to read about how Jewish immigrants adapted to their new Southern homes, and it’s even more amazing when you realize that these people are your ancestors. Trust me, history is very much alive.