I don't get to cook as often as I would like, but I love cooking. Cooking competition television shows like "MasterChef," aside, there's no great mystery to being a good cook. (Note that I didn't say, "culinary genius," just "good cook.") I think the secret to being a good cook is enjoying the process of cooking. If you like chopping things, mixing ingredients, sprinkling seasonings, reveling in the aesthetic pleasure of colorful fruits and vegetables, filling the kitchen with beautiful aromas – then you probably have the makings of a perfectly good, if not great, cook. If you don't enjoy the process, if cooking is not much more than a means to having something – anything – to eat, then cooking will probably feel like a necessary chore and not a joy. Let me hasten to say that I mean no harsh judgment of those of us who don't take delight in cooking; I suppose it's just a matter of temperament.

I learned to cook during my first year of Rabbinical School at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (the Reform Jewish seminary) in Jerusalem. It was the 1980-1981 academic year. I had attended a commuter college, so this was my first time away from home – FAR away from home. My mom, of blessed memory, loved to cook and especially loved to bake. Her Prune Roll (a pretty elaborate pastry with raisins, prune jelly and slivered almonds) as well as her Rosh Hashanah Honey Cake were (and still are) the stuff of legend.

In those days, at least, Israeli "convenience food" (instant this or frozen that) was vile stuff. On the other hand, "real food," as in fresh fruits and veggies and dairy products were wonderful. So, during my first year of Rabbinical School in Jerusalem, it was either eat junky, disgusting convenience food for twelve months, or eat out constantly at the local falafel hangout (which, as a student, I couldn't afford to do) or – gasp – learn how to cook.

Every time I learned how to make something new, I’d get very excited. So excited, in fact, that I would haul out my brand-new Pentax K-1000 single lens reflex camera (purchased specifically for this year of adventure) and snap a photo of whatever I had just prepared. My photo album from that Year in Israel is thus pretty idiosyncratic. A sequence of photos might look something like this:

• Wailing Wall
• Dead Sea
• Lentil Soup
• Holocaust Museum
• Tel Aviv Skyline
• Sinai Desert
• Blintzes…

What launched me on this journey down memory lane about my Year in Israel was the fact that it's been kind of a cold, gray November day here in Austin, Texas, which got me thinking about how nice it would be to have a hot bowl of soup right now on this Friday afternoon.

(What is it, exactly, about cold, gray weather and the craving for soup?)

And then, behold, there it was in this week's Torah portion, Toldot – the famous story of Jacob, Esau, the Birthright and the bowl of lentil soup!

Jacob is the settled, domesticated brother, the one who, according to the Torah "hangs around the tents." Esau, his slightly older twin brother, is the big, redheaded, hairy hunter – the outdoorsman who, we later learn, knows how to turn the game that he brings home into the delicious dishes that his father loves.

One day, the Torah tells us, Esau wanders in from outside. He comes into the tent, tired and ravenous. One whiff of Jacob’s lentil stew – one look at the savory, bubbling concoction – and Esau declares, "Feed me some of that red stuff [that's how the Torah actually words it] because I'm starving!"

Now Jacob, of course, has wanted the privileges of Esau's firstborn status – the birthright – since, literally, before the two of them were born. The Torah tells us that the two of them were smacking each other around within Rebecca's womb throughout her pregnancy, leading her to exclaim, "If this is what it's like, who needs it!?”

Jacob sees an opening. He agrees to give his brother, Esau, some of the soup, but only if Esau swears to him that he will give Jacob his birthright in exchange for something to eat. Esau agrees to the deal.

As you’d imagine, there are countless pages of commentary on this story.

What does it tell us about the kind of person Jacob is? What does it tell us about Esau's personality? Is Jacob admirably clever, or chillingly coldhearted and manipulative? Is Esau a thoughtless hedonist, or an innocent victim?

I don't know.

But on this chilly, grey November day, knowing how much I, myself, would love a bowl of lentil soup right now (and yes, I make a killer lentil soup) I find myself sympathizing with Esau more than in years past.

I mean, really:

Raise your hand if you've never made a less-than-wise choice with long-term consequences because, in the moment, your desire for something, for some kind of immediate pleasure, was overwhelming.

Anyone?

I thought so.

And, for that matter, raise your hand if you've never at least been tempted to press some advantage over someone else – just because you could.

So maybe, this year at least, the point of the story of Jacob, Esau & The Lentil Stew isn't so much about who is doing what to whom, but rather, about the truth that at different times in our lives, we have all been Jacob and we have all been Esau.

Jacob really wants that birthright. He will exploit his brother’s hunger to get it.

Esau really wants that soup. He will fritter away his future to obtain it. Sometimes, soup is Comfort Food. But sometimes, soup is The Broth Of Desire.

AN ADDITIONAL THOUGHT:

Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg, a great teacher of Jewish meditation, speaks of "The happiness of allowing desire to come to its natural end in the body." Usually, we think that happiness grows out of fulfilling or submitting to desire. How might allowing desire to fade away without acting on it be a source of "happiness?" And how might this shed light on our story?

I'd love to hear your comments and thoughts.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Steve Folberg

Tags: Jacob, Esau, lentils, desire, Toldot