Parshat Shemini is divided into three main sections: the assumption by the Kohanim of their priestly functions; the deaths of Aharon's sons, Nadav and Avihu; the laws of kashrut. As with many parshiot, the inclusion of these sections together may seem arbitrary, but there is an underlying logic: the setting of the boundaries between the holy and the unholy, and the Jewish people's obligation to accept the word of God as binding, even when that word is difficult or even unreasonable to the human mind. The Kohanim are expected to perform their tasks without deviation; Nadav and Avihu, who were overly zealous in their conduct, were punished instead of praised for their devotion, because they did not follow the prescribed procedure exactly; the laws of kashrut are to be followed because they are given by God.

For modern American Jews, the section of this parshah which still has any resonance for us is the one dealing with the laws of kashrut. With no Temple and no sacrificial rites, there is no need for a priestly class (except, symbolically in those synagogues which give the Kohanim the first aliyah). We may be cautioned not to imbibe strong drink, as Nadav and Avihu did, but we do not have any outright ban on alcoholic beverages. But kashrut, even for those who do not observe the laws, is still an issue. Even the Reform movement, which has historically rejected the laws of kashrut as archaic, is embroiled in a current debate about whether some kashrut standards should be included in their new platform.

According to the parshah, we permitted to eat the meat of animals, but are restricted as to which animals are acceptable. We are allowed to eat only those mammals which have completely split hooves and chew their cud. Species like the camel, hare, and pig are prohibited; even though they have split hooves, they don't chew their cud. Only fish with both scales and fins are permitted, thus excluding shell fish. All birds of prey were declared prohibited, along with some insects and crawling animals. In this way, the distinction was made "between the unclean and the clean, and between the living things that could be eaten and the living thing that could not be eaten" – in other words, between the holy and unholy.

Why have these laws been set? Are they culturally determined? Just as some Asian cultures consider animals such as dogs to be staples or even delicacies, we in the West find the idea to be abhorrent. Could it be that the taboo against eating the flesh of pigs was similarly distasteful (so to speak) to peoples living in the Middle East?

Or were these laws set for humanitarian purposes? Just as we may not eat carrion or cruel animals, so must we, too, be kind in our treatment of others, both human and animal.

Perhaps the purpose of the laws was hygienic. For example, by not eating pork, we prevent the disease of trichinosis.

Traditionally observant Jews say that none of these rationales are relevant, that we observe the laws of kashrut because God has commanded us to. They would say that it is only the non-observant Jew who looks for reasons, so that they can then reject the laws. After all, if the reason is humanitarian, then we can avoid the issue of cruelty to animals by becoming vegetarians. (And for many Jews, being a vegetarian is the ultimate expression of kashrut.) And if the reasons are hygienic, then the current FDA regulations, as imperfect as they may be, are enough to insure our health.

There are three seemingly peripheral issues about this parshah which fascinate me both as a Jew who observes kashrut and as a feminist: the "explosion" of Talmudic laws about kashrut, the proximity of the parshah to Pesach, and the preoccupation with food by both Jews and women.

The laws as set forth in this parshah are fairly straight-forward; they describe the animals whose flesh we can and cannot eat. There is nothing in the parshah about separate dishes, or dish towels, or automatic dish washers. There is nothing about whether rennet or gelatin can be used to prepare cheese. Even the separation of milk and meat is from a later parshah (and possibly different era in Biblical history). In fact, almost most of the minutiae of kashrut is missing from the Torah. The regulations we follow today were set in later – including contemporary – commentaries. The process of refining and redefining Biblical law continues to this day.

It is interesting (but probably coincidental) that the parshah is read around the time of Pesach, which is the ultimate food-regulated and food-intensive holiday. kashrut laws are even more stringent during Pesach, which the exclusion of any fermented products. It is also the one time of year that even those Jews who completely reject or, at least, ignore the laws of kashrut during the rest of the year feel an obligation to refrain from bread. Again, the laws that we follow for Pesach are an outgrowth of Biblical narrative, rather than set there. There is nothing in the Torah about changing dishes or cleaning our ovens with a blow torch. The oral tradition has as much force – if not more – than the written.

And finally, there is the preoccupation which we, as Jews and as women, have with food. Many of our holy days and holidays have traditional foods associated with them: apples and honey for Rosh Hashanah, latkes and doughnuts for Chanukah, hamentaschen for Purim, dairy products for Shavuot, and, of course, all the forbidden foods for Pesach. (I have often felt that Pesach is the final proof that God is male – no woman would have prescribed a holiday with so many regulations about food!) The kitchen has been the traditional center of power – and source of servitude – for women (despite the oft-cited statistic that the majority of celebrated chefs are men).

In addition, 20th Century Western women – whether Jewish or not – have a problematic relationship to food. We worry about whether we are too fat or (more rarely) too thin. If we eat too much on a date, will the man think us unfeminine? If we eat too little, will we be suspected of anorexia? Do we feel guilty when we eat a piece of candy, so much so that we need to vomit afterwards? Do we feel that we must conform to the "ideals" set by fashion models and actors or we are unworthy?

So why are there all these laws about kashrut, why this fixation with what we can and cannot eat, how it is to be prepared and served? Is it healthful for us to be so obsessed by so many details? What do all these regulations say about our connection with food? Are we what we eat?

To many of us, the idea that we must observe Biblical (or Talmudic) laws because God told us to do so is anathema. We need a rationale, and not so we can reject the laws. We need one so that we can observe them without compromising our other beliefs.

To "keep kosher" is to remind one's self at all times that one is Jewish. We can elevate the act of eating, make it holy, make it special, and, paradoxically, remove from it the stigma that constant media messages have placed on this simple biological necessity. As modern Jews, we do not feel ourselves bound by the same restrictions as our ancestors. We do not observe the laws of kashrut out of blind loyalty or fear of divine retribution. For us, observing the laws of kashrut has become a voluntary act, and, as such, can be ennobling and enriching. As women, we can feel that we are controlling our kinship with food; it is not controlling us. And, just as importantly, as Jews, we are affirming our connections with the Jewish people, past and present, and our folkways and traditions in a concrete, observable, and constant way.