It’s that time of year again. The long, hot summer finally seems to be drawing to a close, the high street shops are full of ‘Back to School’ signs… surely Rosh Hashanah cannot be far away…?

I have always loved customs and traditions. Do I yearn for the predictability and apparent security they offer? Or, as someone whose faith has long since been lost, does the outward framework provide some solace at least, some sense of shape and pattern in the echoing void?

For us, Rosh Hashanah begins with the first of many family traditions a few weeks in advance. The Husband and I turn to each other and recite the customary words: “Whose turn is it to host?”

Thus begins The Counting of the Hostings, where we count backwards through the previous High Holy Days.

Note: when counting the Hostings, you may include or exclude particular festivals according to your own family’s peccadilloes: my niece’s birthday falls on 25 December, so we include Christmas.

So, we count backwards: did we host Pesach? No. Did we host last Christmas? No.
It is unquestionably our turn.

Our next family tradition is: the Debating of the Menu.

This is an elaborate custom, involving multiple stages in the days and weeks leading up to the dinner. Traditionally, the opening gambit should be simple, expressing the fundamentally binary nature of the debate.

The Husband begins: “Fish or chicken?”

Cauliflower rice and salmon

Salmon

I reply: “A whole salmon with the head on is traditional.”

The customary riposte should be accompanied by a rueful smile: “But we prefer chicken.”
Obviously, the matter is by no means settled at that point. The fish-or-chicken exchange should be repeated a minimum of four times over the following days until a decision is confirmed.

But the bigger question remains, one that will require a far greater degree of thought: soup.
To say that soup is regarded with reverence in our family is a considerable understatement. Soup is all things: a sacred libation at the beginning of a celebratory meal; a panacea for whatever ails you; a gift for a bereaved friend; a legal high.

If The Husband should ever need a transfusion, no need to mess about trying to determine his blood type — simply hook him up to a drip of clear chicken broth and he’ll be right as rain in no time (NB if doing this, please do not include kneidlach as they are likely to block the tube. Thank you.)

My personal favourite is watercress soup, made with chicken stock (ie it’s still chicken soup — just decked out in a fancy green dress).

I begin the traditional exchange by saying: “What type of soup?”

The Husband offers the expected response: “Chicken soup?”
Me: “Or watercress?”

Note: each part of the exchange must be proffered with an accompanying question mark, though no definite answer is expected or indeed required.

Nearer the day (usually three days beforehand), one party should graciously concede: “So, let’s do chicken soup then?”

Or: “Maybe the watercress is better?”

Again, note that each phrase must be stated as a question. As soup is revered so greatly in our family, there must be no bullying surrounding it — the question mark allowing for the possibility of dissent and further debate.

The traditions surrounding dessert in the family are legion. First, there must be a minimum of three puddings — crucially, this is in addition to honey cake, which does not count towards the total. The presence of honey cake after the meal is assumed, as is the presence of two round chollot at the beginning — it is an essential prop rather than a separate dessert in its own right.

One dessert must feature either apples or plums, usually a tart. If we are lucky, then there will be zwetschgetorte, made with the extraordinarily elusive zwetschge (Swiss German) plums.

My sister-in-law is the loveliest person I know, but she does seem to have access to some sort of rarefied fruit-smuggling ring from Switzerland (the desired plums are not available in the UK — even before Brexit.)

When setting the tart down on the lovely white tablecloth, the traditional blessing is said by whoever made it: “Something went wrong with the pastry.”

Meringues are featured too. No-one can quite remember if this is because they are white, symbolic of renewal, because they are so sugary that they offer us a sweet year ahead, or because they have always been The Teen’s favourite and he is the baby of the children’s generation and therefore spoilt (though he now towers above his cousins and his cousins-squared — the cousins’ cousins, do keep up!).

The third option must be “healthy” — a fruit salad, if Rosh Hashanah falls early and the weather is still warm, or a cooked fruit compôte if it falls late and there is a chill in the air.

Everyone must have a little of this, because it is healthy, even if they don’t want it.
Thus, as with all Jewish festivals, amidst the joy, there must always be a nod to the pain and suffering of the human condition…

Claire Calman’s sixth novel is “A Second-Hand Husband”
Twitter: @clairecalman