Shabbat Dinner with My In-Laws: Traditions, Food, and Family Life
- Claire
- Apr 28
- 5 min read
Updated: Apr 29
The most beautiful thing I discovered while converting and living in Israel was Shabbat—especially Friday night. Depending on the family and the moment, it could feel like a simple weekly gathering or something closer to a quiet, sacred ritual.
In my in-laws’ home, it moved between those two states, shaped by mood, guests, and whatever the week had left behind.
But Friday night doesn’t arrive all at once. First come the other days. In Israel, the week begins on Sunday—Yom Rishon, meaning “first day”—followed by Monday, Yom Sheni, the second day. The early days feel slow, then suddenly everything accelerates: Wednesday appears, Thursday follows as the last working day of the week. And then it is Friday—frenzy Friday, with a kind of agitation I have not experienced anywhere else.
Everything shifts into preparation—shopping, errands, food. Cook or buy? Often, both. Quick—everyone is pulled into the countdown to Shabbat.
The 3 P.M. Shift: When Israel Breathes
Shabbat begins at different times throughout the year, as early as 4:00 PM in winter and closer to 7:00 PM or later in summer. But from mid-afternoon on Friday, everything begins to wind down: shops close, buses stop running, and even the seaside—so lively in summer—becomes unexpectedly quiet and empty.
I remember walking along a beach in Herzliya around 8 p.m. on a Friday night in August: deserted, and with every step it grew darker. The beach bars and lounging chairs shut for the night. I quickly turned back toward the lights of the hotel. In much of Europe’s coastal towns, that same hour would be full of beach parties.
Around 3 p.m., it feels as if a balloon has been stretched to its limit—tight, expectant—until suddenly: pfffff—the air is released. Everything slows down. The noise fades. The pace softens. You can breathe again.
It is still Friday, but already Shabbat.
As it is written in Genesis, the first book of the Bible: “And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.” The day begins with evening, unlike the Western calendar, where it begins at midnight, without being felt until morning.
I have always loved that quiet window between 3 p.m. and Friday night dinner. It feels as if the country itself is floating above the week, freed from its pace.
Then comes dinner, beginning with Kiddush, the blessing.
Every week, the family gathered at my in-laws’ home. The moment we stepped inside, our appetite awakened with the rich smell of food and and the certainty that couscous awaited.
An abundance of colorful side dishes, along with a large plate of semolina, was already on the table. But it held more than food. On the white cloth, among the silver cutlery and porcelain plates, was a covered pair of challot (braided breads similar to brioche), placed at the center beside the two Shabbat candles my mother-in-law had taught me to light, following tradition. Nearby was the wine for my father-in-law’s Kiddush cup and a stack of kippot (small skullcaps worn by the men).
But it is not time yet. My mother-in-law is still in the kitchen.
Secrets of the Kitchen
We sat, chatted, and snacked on dried nuts. Sometimes my mother-in-law called me into the kitchen. None of her sons paid much attention to what was going on there—but I was all ears, and I learned a lot from her. She proudly showed me her delicious boulettes—her own secret recipe she shared with me—the p’kaila, a traditional spinach and beef dish she preferred to buy because it was too much work to make, and the many fresh or cooked salads, all with a touch of harissa, a spice I discovered with them. She would send me back with a smile, half serious and half joking, saying she would surely forget something—indeed, one dish was always left waiting somewhere in the oven.
Being part of that Friday night felt like an initiation into something I could not yet fully understand, until slowly it began to feel natural. At first, it seemed like just another family meal. But something about it felt different.
Because it happened at night.
Because it began with my father-in-law calling the men to put on their kippot.
Because everyone stood silently by their seats.
It was a ceremony.
The Ceremony of the Kiddush
Clearing his throat and hushing the room, he became, in my eyes, a kind of priest. Holding the cup with both hands, he began the blessing in a language both ancient and mysterious.
After the final line, a decisive “Baruch atah Adonai, mekadesh haShabbat,” and a final “Amen” from everyone, he placed a finger to his lips, reminding us to remain silent. My father-in-law took a sip of wine, then passed the cup around, and we followed—some with wine, others, like me, with sweet grape juice, Tirosh.
While the cup went around, he uncovered the challot, lifted them while whispering another prayer, kissed them, chose one, and broke it into pieces. He sprinkled salt, ate first, then shared with everyone.
Only then could we speak again.
My mother-in-law rushed back from the kitchen, calling out, “Bete’avon! Bon appétit!” And suddenly, the room erupted into a happy brouhaha of voices and passing dishes. And so it was, every Friday evening.
Little by little, I began to recognize fragments of the prayers: “Yom ha-shishi” (Friday), “ha-shamayim ve-ha-aretz” (the heavens and the earth), and “Savri Maranan” (Aramaic words I only noticed because of the authoritative tone in which they were spoken).
Everyone around the table knew these words by heart. They had grown up with them. Believers or not, they were part of who they were. Not quite for me at first—but over time, they began to settle in, though I was always on my toes not to miss the moments to say “Amen.”
It was a ritual. A connection. Something shared and respected.
My mother-in-law stood beside her husband, content and composed. They came from different upbringings—she, the granddaughter of a rabbi; he, from a more secular but tradition-respecting family—but at that moment, none of that mattered. They were united. I later learned that even when they were alone, they would still stand and make Kiddush together.
Over time, I realized this was more than just a meal. It was a quiet, weekly moment of shared identity and belonging. And on those evenings, I felt, in a simple way, that I belonged too.
Do you have a weekly ritual—religious or not—that makes you feel grounded? I’d love to hear about your "3 p.m. Friday" moment in the comments. Click below to follow along. This post is inspired by my memoir, which is currently seeking publication. Thank you for reading—feel free to share and explore more posts!
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