The Slippery Slope to Kitniot

Jews come in all different stripes. Yet it’s amazing the diversity that can exist inside a single stripe. For instance, among those who define themselves as “observant/Orthodox Jews” there can be a wide range of “observance.” Waiting between meat and milk is one example. My family minhag, or custom, is to wait six hours. Some of my friends wait three. And my sister-in-law married someone of Dutch ancestry, whose custom is to wait only one. If my sister-in-law and I go out for a meat lunch, and an hour later we see an ice cream store, she can partake of it while still being fully compliant with Jewish law. If I eat a spoonful, I am essentially eating treif (non-kosher). So even within a homogenous subset of Jews, there are strong differences, often dictated by family minhag.

 

Another minhag that always crops up this time of year is kitniot. Kitniot are legumes, which include rice, beans, soy, string beans, peas and lentils. Jews of Ashkenazi descent do not eat kitniot on Pesach for a few reasons: Kitniot are processed in the same way chametz (unleavened bread) is processed, they can be ground into a chametz-like flour and they may have chametz grains mixed in. Kitniot, however, are permitted for Sephardi Jews. My Sephardi friend eats some string beans on Pesach? Totally fine. But for me? Forbidden!

 

Not eating kitniot was never really a discussion topic when we lived in America. American Jewry is largely dominated by Ashkenazi customs. So it was no big deal to keep to a kitniot-free Pesach. All the food labeled “KFP” (Kosher for Passover) meant it was also non-kitniot. You could waltz into any kosher supermarket and purchase non-kitniot oil, dairy products, snacks and mayonnaise.

 

Once we moved to Israel, things got a bit more complex. Israeli culture certainly has a strong Ashkenazi component, but when it comes to Pesach, it seems the kitniot-eaters are the dominant group. Depending where you live, it can be downright difficult to find kitniot-free items. (The aforementioned mayonnaise? I cannot begin to describe how many conversations I have overheard regarding the difficulties of purchasing kitniot-free mayonnaise in Israel. There is a guy who actually imports it to Israel for Ashkenazim. Like a bootlegger.) During food shopping trips, I have to squint to read the fine print on the food labels that indicates whether the item has kitniot in it. (And be careful—you can’t just look for the word “kitniot” because it can either say, “For kitniot-eaters only” or “No kitniot.” Happy squinting!)

 

But it’s not just the array of kitniot-infused products that makes it so complicated to continue to toe the kitniot line. Eating kitniot is a mainstream part of Israeli society. Us kitniot-eschewers are definitely in the minority. You feel like an outsider digging through the shelves to find the legume-less products. Many people simply give up, pulling a “When in Rome” attitude: I live in Israel now; therefore, I eat kitniot. Even friends of ours who grew up kitniot-free in Israel decided, once they were married with their own families, to simply start eating kitniot. The “intermarriage” between Sephardim and Ashkenazim has complicated the matter even further. If your child marries a Sephardi, do you not eat in their house over Pesach for fear of eating kitniot?

 

Avoiding kitniot just seems like a lot of work for something that is perhaps not so applicable anymore. Yes, we were once worried that Jews would confuse kitniot with actual chametz. Yes, there used to be less oversight in food production, so bits of chametz could possibly have made their way into the lentils. If that is still a serious concern—if we are truly worried that bread crumbs are in our rice and lentils—then wouldn’t all of Jewry refrain from eating kitniot? That it is perfectly acceptable to have “kitniot eaters” says something about the seriousness (or lack thereof) of the prohibition.

 

Perhaps not eating kitinot, at least for Israeli Jews, is simply no longer relevant or sustainable. Israel is kitniot-eaters’ world, and we’re just living in it. Even the argument of “you have to keep your family custom” is growing weaker. I look back one generation, to the people we most directly inherit our minhagim from—our parents. I see my parents, who made aliyah as well and have begun to be less strict about not eating kitinot. I see my in-laws, who plan to move here in a few years; they, too, have indicated that they would most likely begin eating kitniot. So if the “family” behind the “family minhag” changes their tune, does the custom even have a leg to stand on?

 

Sometimes, certain customs that were an accepted part of our culture for many years, even centuries, reach their natural end. Many modern Rabbis today think that having fast days and special prayers during years of drought is no longer relevant. As you read in this spot a few weeks ago, a rain-less winter used to be a death sentence, a problem mentioned numerous times in the Bible. Rivers dried up, crops and animals died, people had nothing to eat or drink. Starvation was the prognosis, unless God sent us some rain. And so we came together to fast and pray. Now, though we still live in a desert, we can survive a dry winter or two. Fasting for rain simply is no longer relevant.

 

Maybe the relevancy of kitniot has also come to an end. In my family, we have slowly started down the slippery slope, buying products that are not actual kitniot, but have kitniot derivatives in them. While I still can’t imagine serving rice at my Seder, it’s just as hard to imagine continuing to be a kitniot teetotaler in Israel.

 

When it comes to tradition and custom versus cultural relevancy—what side do you come out on?