Here’s the thing. I grew up in a family whose Jewishness might best be described as “token”. We made basic gestures towards our religion by attending synagogue on high holy days (Rosh Hoshana, Yom Kippur) but the idea of, say, observing the Sabbath on a weekly basis never crossed our minds.

Crucially, we didn’t eat according to tradition. We were not kosher. Jewish law forbids — among much else — eating meat unless it has been killed in a certain way and absolutely no pork or shellfish, ever. But my mother made spaghetti bolognese from ordinary mince; the occasional pork sausage ended up on our plates; and ham was often found in our lunchboxes.

Perhaps you’ve guessed: Jewish tradition involves an inordinate amount of cooking and eating — and thinking about cooking and eating. If you are religious, you will be in constant consideration of the rules of what you can and can not eat. Religious or not, acknowledging the Sabbath (sundown Friday to sundown Saturday) is synonymous with serving or attending a big Friday night meal.

Not surprising, then, that not eating Jewish has always made me feel a little less Jewish. And now, having left my religious identity unattended and unquestioned during my teens and early twenties, I find myself being drawn back towards it. What does being Jewish mean — if anything — to me? How can it enrich my life? I can’t help but note how grounded my Jewish friends seem — the ones who never miss a Friday-night dinner, that is. While I slurp bad white wine in a pub somewhere, they are sitting down to a hearty meal with people they care about, spouting melodic prayers and discussing life, love and the universe. And, soul aside, could my body have lost out because I ignore the dietary framework provided by my religion?

Michael van Straten, a nutritional consultant and expert in Jewish cooking, says that eating according to Jewish dietary law can provide the framework for a healthy diet, as long as you stick to the Sephardic (Spanish and Middle Eastern) cuisine, rather than the Ashkenazi (German and East European). Sephardic cooking is heavy in fresh vegetables, beans, root vegetables and chickpeas because of their regional abundance. Israelis regularly tuck in to large bowls of fresh hoummos for lunch.

But the Ashkenazi diet evolved to be extremely fatty. Jews living in Eastern Europe often faced poverty, extreme cold and gruelling physical labour. Consequently, the food needed to contain as much fat as possible. The pinnacle of Ashkenazi cooking is chollent, a fatty meat stew that cooks overnight. The Sephardic version of chollent is made with barley, lean meat and root vegetables. “If you include plenty of Sephardic dishes, the Jewish diet becomes a very healthy way of living: low in animal fat and high in fibre and protein,” Van Straten says.

Crucially, the Jewish attitude to eating elevates food to an essential part of social interaction. Van Straten, who grew up with eight siblings, recalls how his family cherished mealtimes. “Food was the cement that bound us all together,” he says. For Van Straten, Jewish tradition is synonymous with Jewish food.

So, with Passover approaching (it begins on April 2), I decided to reengage with my Jewishness in a way that would really absorb me — via my tastebuds. Passover, a period of eight days that celebrates the Jews’ escape from slavery in Egypt 3,500 years ago, all seemed perfect for my purposes. The Seder meal which is at the heart of the festival is laden with ritual and symbolism. The food literally tells the Passover story. In learning to prepare the food, I figured I might understand the point of Passover.

But, having been deprived of a mother well versed in Jewish cooking (apart from a recipe for chicken soup that would impress even the most critical of Hebraic grannies), it was clear that I’d have to find help elsewhere. So I asked my friend Jo’s mother, Michelle, to teach me how to make a Passover meal.

Like me, Michelle isn’t God-fearing and she is anything but devout. Nevertheless, her family never misses a Friday night dinner and her Seder dinners (I’ve been to two) have that perfect mix of form and chaos: a squabbling family veering between intellectual debate, Hebrew prayers and a pure focus on eating her delicious food. Michelle’s tutelage would culminate in my very own Passover rehearsal dinner, to which I’d invite eight friends, some Jewish, some not.

First, I learnt to prepare the ceremonial Seder plate, which sits at the centre of the table, literally and figuratively. On it goes a roasted egg, a lamb shank, bitter herbs (parsley), salt water and horseradish. Near by, there is a plate of three matzos (squares of unleavened bread) and a bowl of charoset, a thick blend of apples, walnuts, almonds, sweet wine and dates.

Odd as this collection of foodstuffs sounds, it is anything but random. The egg is a symbol of mourning as well as of life, appropriate for a holiday that pays tribute to a journey from bondage to freedom. It is roasted to represent the sacrificial “burnt offering” to God. The lamb shank is symbolic of the lamb offered as the Passover sacrifice in biblical times and bitter herbs are intended to remind merry celebrants that life was not always so pleasant for the Jews.

More specifically, the horseradish literally brings tears to your eyes, an unabashed representation of the bitterness of slavery. If you haven’t got the point yet, the salt water (in which you dip the parsley before eating it) should conjure the tears shed by the Israelites in Egypt. Still, just as integral is the gorgeous charoset. Apples and nuts make a very tasty representation of the mortar mixed by the Jewish slaves forced to build the cities of the pharoes. And finally, the matzos, one for each of the hereditary “orders” from temple times: the Kohanim (priests), the Levites (their assistants) and the Israelites (everyone else). We eat unleavened bread on Passover because we had no time to wait for bread to rise: we were on the run.

Symbolic food done, it was time to set the table. A beautifully laid table is key, since there are so many special dishes and cups for ceremonial wine, and Michelle said she can’t concentrate on cooking properly until she knows it’s ready. I was going to use an old pink tablecloth and paper towels for napkins. No way: off to Waitrose we went to get matching white “table stationery”. We put flowers out and candles. Everyone had a water glass, a wine glass and a thimble for holy wine, taken in symbolic sips.

Now, back to the kitchen, where Michelle revealed her classics. At a Seder meal, the symbolic food is always the same, horseradish, bitter herbs, salt water etc, but there is some latitude in choice for the proper meal. In this instance we prepared soup made from a broth of simmering turkey bone and vegetables. Matzo balls were added later. Next was the cabbage dish made with a thick plank of tomor (kosher lard), a roughly chopped onion and an apple; next went in the sliced red cabbage, vinegar and some sweet wine. Main course was kosher chicken cooked with marmalade, dried apricots and chopped almonds served with roast potatoes. Pudding was a Passover favourite: meringue with strawberries.

It all simmered away deliciously while my guests arrived and we began the ritual part of the Seder. Those who had never been to a Seder were dazzled by the formality and intricacy of the table. The combination of the Seder plate, the sweet kosher wine and the haggadahs (the book that orders and interprets the Passover meal) set everyone off on a kind of spontaneous Seder combustion. For two hours we debated and discussed: what relevance did Passover have for modern Jews? Did the symbolism of the food seem meaningful? Why is Passover considered the most important of Jewish festivals? We did not arrive at answers but we had a wonderful vigorous discussion. And then we ate the main meal.

The fact that the chicken was a bit dry by the time we’d exhausted our discussions didn’t matter. The sense of involvement I derived from creating the event made me feel more absorbed in the Seder than ever. Food is not only one way into Judaism; it is, perhaps, the best way.

For classic Jewish recipes read Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food (Penguin, £16.99) or Evelyn Rose’s The New Complete International Jewish Cookbook (Robson Books, £16.99)

Jewish food — it’s all unhealthy, salty, fatty stodge, right? No . . . The meal that I cooked ticks lots of health boxes: it is loaded with vegetables, lean protein and healthy oils. However, the salt content is a bit high so don’t add any more. Here’s the breaksdown dish by dish:

Matzos A yeast-free, salt-free alternative to bread. Try the wholemeal version
Charoset A mixture of apples, nuts and wine. Source of vitamin C, fibre and protein
Parsley High in vitamins A and C
Roasted egg A low-calorie, dense source of protein, vitamins and minerals
Turkey soup with matzo balls Full of minerals, although the matzo balls add fat and salt
Chicken breasts/thighs with marmalade, dried apricots and toasted almonds Good combination of lean protein and essential oils (from the nuts), though the sugar in the marmalade makes the dish less healthy
Roast potatoes in kosher lard (tomor) and olive oil It’s healthier if you leave out the tomor; the potatoes are a source of carbohydrate rich in vitamins and minerals
Stewed red cabbage with onion, apple and wine Great source of iron and sulphur, cleansing agents for the digestive system.
Steamed broccoli and leeks Source of vitamin C and soluble fibre
Meringue with strawberries There is no fat in egg whites but meringues are high in sugar, though it is nutrionally rounded out with strawberries.

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