Matzo Ball Soup Is an Iconic Jewish Ritual

It’s a visceral experience, Michael Solomonov told me when we spoke on the phone about his lifelong love of matzo ball soup. The Israeli-born chef/owner of several acclaimed Philadelphia restaurants, including Zahav, rhapsodized about the purity of the broth, the alleged bronchial-healing effect of chicken fat, and the “magical pairing” it makes with cinnamon, which his mother uses to season her matzo balls. “There’s an emotional response you get when eating this dish,” he said.

Cooks feel that connection too. Tending the soup pot and rolling the dumplings are meditative acts that bring as much comfort and joy as serving and eating it. And the smell of matzo ball soup on the stove is unmistakable and intoxicating, like a savory mist that wafts throughout the house for the benefit of everyone around it. 

“It just kind of wraps itself around the hallways and gets in the closets,” said Jeffrey Yoskowitz, a Jewish food expert and co-founder/owner of the Gefilteria, a New York–based company that’s reimagining and teaching about Ashkenazi cuisine. 

For Yoskowitz and Solomonov, that scent is also the one that signals the Jewish holidays, especially Passover and the intricate seder meal. The making of matzo ball soup happens a little differently in each cook’s kitchen, but it’s arguably the most unifying preparation in the Jewish canon. 

“People make matzo ball soup as part of their family ritual, religious or not, in hundreds of different places in the world at essentially the same time,” Solomonov said. “It’s a ceremonious sort of act that is bigger than you, and you are continuing a tradition.”

Matzo balls can be floated in any number of soups, but the most iconic pairing is with a clear, deeply chicken-y broth that’s subtly sweetened by root vegetables and often fragrant with warm spices and fresh dill. To make mine, I broke down a whole bird into parts that fit snugly into a Dutch oven, minimizing the amount of water necessary for covering the meat and, thus, the simmering time to concentrate the broth. Separating the breast and leg quarters also meant that I could remove the white meat as soon as it hit 160 degrees, keeping it moist, while leaving the collagen-rich dark portions, wings, and backbone to simmer until that meat was tender and the liquid flavorful and full-bodied. Chopped carrot, celery, and onion (skin-on, so its natural pigments deepened the color of the broth) added sweet, round depth. 

As the water came to a boil, I skimmed the clumps of protein that floated to the surface to make the broth clearer. Fifteen or so minutes later, I plucked out the fully cooked breast portions to rest while I seasoned the broth with black peppercorns, a few sprigs of dill, and a couple cloves, and let it simmer gently for a little more than an hour. Then I strained the solids and set aside the rich, golden liquid while I mixed up the matzo balls. 

Just about every batch contains the following: matzo meal; eggs; fat—ideally, schmaltz; water; and salt. All you do is whisk together the egg and schmaltz and then stir in the other components until the dough is cohesive. It’s pretty goopy at that point but firms up to a scoopable consistency after it chills in the fridge for 45 minutes or so, which gives the matzo meal a chance to hydrate and the fat time to solidify. Then you roll the dough into golf ball–size rounds and gently poach them in water and/or broth so that they plump up.

The texture of matzo balls, and whether they float or sink, are highly personal, hotly debated variables that can be controlled with ingredient ratios and cook times. The gist is this: Egg and matzo meal provide structure; fat, water, and leaveners (if any), tenderness. Scaling those components up or down is what makes the dumplings plush or firm, airy or tightly packed—or somewhere in between. And the longer the dumplings poach, the more liquid they’ll absorb. If they absorb enough, they’ll become denser than the broth they’re sitting in, and sink. 

I happen to like my matzo balls tender and floaty, so I minimized the amount of eggs since their proteins can be a source of toughness; made sure to weigh the matzo meal because volume measurements can range widely; and added enough schmaltz to give the dumplings rich flavor and, as Yoskowitz put it, “velvety texture.” Then, to really tenderize the dough, I stirred in baking powder and swapped out the water for seltzer—common additions that open up the texture. 

The poaching is typically done (or at least started) in salted water to avoid clouding and soaking up too much of the broth, but it’s nice to finish the dumplings in the soup so that they become saturated with chicken-y savor. My hybrid approach: 15 minutes in the water, then another 20 to 30 in the broth (longer if you want sinkers) at a bare simmer, lest a harder boil break them apart. I knew they were done when I cut one in half and squeezed it gently, and broth seeped out from the center.

To underscore the earthy sweetness of the broth and add some color, I simmered a little chopped carrot, celery, and parsnip in the soup as the matzo balls cooked. But whether or not the soup contains vegetables—or shreds of chicken, fresh herbs, or any other seasonings—is up to you. In fact, I wrote the recipe as modules to make it as flexible as possible: You can prepare all of the components or just one; adjust the consistency and flavor of the matzo balls as you like; and garnish it, or not. (Though I can’t let you go without making a plug for the crispy bits of skin leftover from rendering schmaltz; trust me, you want these in your bowl.)