Chullin 110

Hook

Close your eyes for a second. Can you smell it? That crisp, smoky blend of damp pine needles, toasted marshmallows, and the sweet, lingering dew of a summer evening. Picture yourself sitting on a half-rotted log, the warmth of the campfire kissing your face while the chill of the lake creeps up your back. Someone is tuning a slightly beat-up acoustic guitar, and before you know it, a voice starts hum-singing.

Let's start right there, with a melody. Hum with me—a simple, wordless, rolling niggun that starts low in your chest and rises like the sparks climbing into the starry night sky:

“Lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai...”

There’s a magic to camp. It’s a place where we live with a different set of rules, a distinct rhythm, and a shared vocabulary. At camp, we knew exactly who we were because the boundaries of our community were as clear as the lake’s edge. But then, late August comes. We pack our duffels, say our tearful goodbyes, and head back to the "real world."

Suddenly, those clear boundaries start to blur. How do we take the passionate, experiential, "campfire" energy of our Jewish youth and give it grown-up legs in our everyday homes, marriages, and families?

Today, we are diving into a wild, witty, and deeply profound page of Talmud—Chullin 110a—to discover how the ancient rabbis struggled with this exact same challenge: how to navigate different customs, how to set boundaries without losing our joy, and how to stay true to ourselves when we feel like we are living in "borrowed garments."

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Context

To understand where we are landing on the page, let’s set the scene with three quick trail markers:

• The Geography of Jewish Identity: Our text takes place in Babylonia, where two major rabbinic academies—Sura and Pumbedita—reigned supreme. Think of them like two rival summer camps. Sura was the institutional, strict, and highly regulated camp where the rules were followed to the letter. Pumbedita was the creative, intellectual, slightly rebellious camp, famous for its sharp-witted students who could "pass an elephant through the eye of a needle" with their logic.
• The Forest Metaphor: Think of the halakhic (Jewish legal) system as a vast, ancient forest. The core Torah laws are the established, well-trodden trails. But as life moves forward, we encounter wild weather, fallen trees, and new terrain. To keep hikers from wandering off the cliffside into danger, the rabbis build "fences"—protective boundaries around the law. But what happens when one camp’s fence is so high that it blocks the view of the forest, while another camp prefers to navigate by the stars?
• The Clash of the Titans: In this text, we meet Rav, the great founder of the academy in Sura, who is trying to protect a community of unlearned Jews by imposing strict rules. And we meet Rami bar Tamrei, a brilliant, fast-talking scholar from Pumbedita, who wanders into Sura and starts breaking their local taboos left and right, defending himself with dazzling legal loopholes. It’s the ultimate showdown between institutional authority and individual authenticity.

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Text Snapshot

Here is the heart of the action from Chullin 110a:

"In Sura they would not eat udders at all; but in Pumbedita they would eat udders. Rami bar Tamrei... from Pumbedita, arrived in Sura on the eve of Yom Kippur. Everyone brought out their udders and threw them away. Rami bar Tamrei went and gathered them, roasted them, and ate them...

Rav Ḥisda said to him: 'Why did you do this?' Rami bar Tamrei said to him: 'I am from the place of Rav Yehuda, who eats udders.' Rav Ḥisda said to him: 'But do you not hold by the principle that the Sages impose upon a traveler the stringencies of the place he left and also the stringencies of the place to which he went?' Rami bar Tamrei said to him: 'I ate them outside the boundaries of Sura.'"

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Close Reading

Let's unpack this text and the classic commentaries surrounding it. We are going to look at four distinct insights that translate directly from this ancient Babylonian debate right into the living rooms, kitchens, and hearts of our modern homes.

Insight 1: The Guardrails of our Sanctuary – Fencing the Valley

Our Talmudic journey begins with a discussion about cooking an udder. According to biblical law, meat cooked in milk is forbidden. But what about an udder? An udder is the organ that holds milk, but it is made of meat. If you roast it, is it permitted?

Let's look at how Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, in his commentary on Chullin 110a:1, explains the core mechanics of this law:

שבשלה בחלבה (החלב שינק הגדי מאמו) — הריהי אסורה, ש אפילו בדיעבד נמי [שנעשה הדבר גם כן] לא יאכלנה, לכך תנא נמי רישא [שנה גם כן בהתחלה] שבשלה בלשון בדיעבד, ואולם מעיקר הדין, אף לכתחילה מותר לצלות את הכחל בחלבו.

“That which was cooked in its milk (the milk that the kid nursed from its mother)—behold, it is forbidden, so that even post-facto [after the fact] one may not eat it. Therefore, the Tanna also taught the first clause using post-facto language. However, according to the letter of the law, even ab-initio [from the outset] it is permitted to roast the udder in its milk.”

Steinsaltz points out something fascinating: according to the raw "letter of the law" (me'ikar hadin), there is actually nothing wrong with roasting an udder. The milk inside it isn't considered "cooked" with the meat in a biblically forbidden way. It’s technically permitted!

But then we learn about Rav. Rav travels to a town called Tatlefush. He overhears a woman asking, "How much milk do I need to cook a quarter-pound of meat?" Rav gasps. He realizes that the Jewish community in Tatlefush is completely uneducated about the basic laws of Kashrut. They don't even know that cooking meat and milk is a biblical violation!

So, what does Rav do? He doesn't just teach them the law. The Gemara tells us: "Rav found an unguarded valley and fenced it in." He goes ahead and prohibits all udders to them, even roasted ones. He builds a massive, extra-stringent fence because he realizes that without it, the community will fall into the valley.

How this translates to our homes:

Every family is its own "valley," and every household needs its own "fences." Think about the boundaries you set in your home. We live in a world where we are constantly bombarded by digital noise, work emails at 9:00 PM, and the endless scroll of social media.

If we don't build "fences," the sacred space of our family life gets trampled.

Maybe your "fence" is a rule: "No phones at the dinner table." Technically, according to the "letter of the law" of life, there is nothing evil about a smartphone. But like Rav in Tatlefush, you look at your family and realize, “We are losing our connection. We don't know how to talk to each other without a screen.” So, you build a fence. You declare the dinner table a "phone-free sanctuary."

The goal of the fence isn't to be restrictive for the sake of being annoying; it’s to protect the "unguarded valley" of your family’s intimacy. When we build healthy boundaries at home, we aren't locking ourselves in; we are locking the sacredness in, and keeping the chaos out.

Insight 2: The Rebel on the Outskirts – Navigating Different "Camps"

Now, enter our protagonist, Rami bar Tamrei. He is the ultimate free-spirited camper. He comes from Pumbedita, where they eat udders with joy. He arrives in Sura on the day before Yom Kippur. In Sura, they are incredibly strict; they don't eat udders at all. In fact, they throw them in the trash.

Rami bar Tamrei looks at this perfectly good food being wasted, goes to the dumpster, gathers the discarded udders, roasts them, and eats them.

When the local leader, Rav Hisda, catches him, he is shocked! He asks, "Don't you hold by the rule that when you travel, you must follow the strict rules of the place you came from AND the place you are visiting?"

Rami bar Tamrei replies with brilliant, cheeky logic: "I ate them outside the boundary (the techum) of Sura!" He literally walked right up to the property line of the town, took one step over the border, and ate his roasted udders where the local jurisdiction couldn't touch him.

How this translates to our homes:

How many of us have married or partnered with someone who went to a "different camp"? Maybe not literally, but culturally, emotionally, or spiritually.

One of you comes from "Sura"—a household where everything was highly organized, dinner was at exactly 6:00 PM, and dishes were washed immediately. The other comes from "Pumbedita"—where dinner was an organic, chaotic event that happened whenever people were hungry, and the dishes could wait until tomorrow.

When we build a home together, these "clashes of custom" can feel like a battleground. We tend to look at our partner's different way of doing things and think, “They are doing it wrong! They are throwing away the udders!” or “They are being way too uptight!”

Rami bar Tamrei teaches us a powerful lesson in spatial awareness and respect. He didn't try to force the people of Sura to eat udders. He didn't make a scene in the middle of the town square. He respected their space, but he also respected his own identity. He found the "outskirts"—the middle ground—where he could maintain his personal practice without causing a public scandal.

In our relationships, we have to find our own "outskirts." We have to ask: “Where can we negotiate our differences? How do we honor the 'Sura' in you and the 'Pumbedita' in me without tearing the household apart?” It’s about creating a shared domestic culture that has room for both structure and freedom, both tradition and spontaneity.

Insight 3: The Clean Vessel – The Grace of Self-Exemption

As the confrontation between Rav Hisda and Rami bar Tamrei escalates, Rav Hisda notices something else about this visitor. He looks at Rami bar Tamrei and sees that he isn't wearing Tefillin (phylacteries).

Let's look at the commentary of Rashi on Chullin 110a:10:1:

פטור מן התפילין - מפני שצריך לחלצן תדיר

“Exempt from tefillin—because he needs to remove them constantly.”

And let's see how Rabbi Steinsaltz elaborates on this in Chullin 110a:10:

חזייה דלא הוה מנח [ראהו רב חסדא שרמי בר תמרי אינו מניח] תפילין, וכדרכם של תלמידי חכמים שתפילין בראשיהם, אמר ליה [לו]: מאי טעמא לא מנחת [מה טעם אין אתה מניח] תפילין? אמר ליה [לו] רמי בר תמרי לרב חסדא: חולי מעיין הוא (אני), ואמר רב יהודה כי זה שחולה בחולי מעיין הריהו פטור מן התפילין, שכן תפילין דורשות גוף נקי, ואילו אדם זה שנזקק תכופות לצרכיו, הריהו צריך לחולצן פעמים רבות.

“Rav Hisda saw that Rami bar Tamrei was not donning tefillin, as was the custom of Torah scholars to have tefillin on their heads. He said to him: 'What is the reason you do not don tefillin?' Rami bar Tamrei said to him: 'I am suffering from an intestinal illness, and Rav Yehuda said that one who is sick with an intestinal illness is exempt from tefillin, because tefillin require a clean body, whereas this person who frequently needs his bodily needs must remove them many times.'”

This is a stunning moment of raw, human vulnerability. Tefillin are the ultimate symbol of spiritual devotion—they are literally leather boxes containing the Shema, bound to our heads and our arms, representing the alignment of our minds and our actions with the Divine. In the times of the Talmud, scholars wore them all day long. For a scholar like Rami bar Tamrei to walk around without them was highly unusual and socially risky.

But Rami bar Tamrei doesn't hide his reality. He says, “I have an intestinal illness.”

Because of his physical condition, he cannot maintain the "clean body" (guf naki) required to wear Tefillin. If he wore them, he would constantly have to take them off and put them back on as he ran to the bathroom. Therefore, Jewish law doesn't just excuse him—it exempts him. The Torah prioritizes his physical dignity over the ritual performance.

How this translates to our homes:

How often do we feel the crushing pressure to be "perfect" partners, "perfect" parents, or "perfect" Jews? We want our homes to look like a curated Instagram feed, filled with organic meals, beautifully behaved children, and serene Shabbat tables. We want to wear our metaphorical "Tefillin"—our badges of spiritual and domestic success—at all times.

But then, life happens.

We get sick. We suffer from mental exhaustion, burnout, anxiety, or grief. Our "insides" feel chaotic and unclean. We don’t have the energy to make the perfect Shabbat dinner, or to be patient with our kids, or to show up for our community the way we used to.

Rashi and Steinsaltz teach us a beautiful, life-saving truth: The Torah demands integrity, not performance.

If you are going through a season of vulnerability, the most spiritual thing you can do is recognize your limitations. You are exempt. If you need to order pizza on paper plates for Shabbat because you are emotionally depleted, that is your holy service. If you need to step back from volunteering at the synagogue to take care of your mental health, you are honoring the requirement of a guf naki—a healthy, clean, intact self.

We must give ourselves, and our family members, the grace of self-exemption when the body or the soul is in pain.

Insight 4: The Thirty-Day Grace Period – Borrowed Garments and Authentic Selves

The debate continues! Rav Hisda looks down and notices yet another anomaly: Rami bar Tamrei is not wearing Tzitzit (the ritual fringes) on his four-cornered garment.

Let's look at Rabbeinu Gershom’s commentary on Chullin 110a:10:

חזיה. דלית ליה חוטי ציצית

“He saw that he did not have the threads of tzitzit.”

And let's see how Rabbeinu Gershom on Chullin 110a:11 and Rashi on Chullin 110a:11:1 explain Rami's defense:

פטורה מן הציצית כל ל' יום. כלומר בתוך ל' יום אבל אם שאלה יותר מל' יום חייבת בציצית

“Exempt from tzitzit for all of thirty days. That is to say, within thirty days, but if he borrowed it for more than thirty days, it is obligated in tzitzit.”

Rami bar Tamrei explains to Rav Hisda: “It is a borrowed cloak!” And according to Jewish law, a borrowed garment is exempt from Tzitzit for the first thirty days.

Let's look at the Meiri on Chullin 110a:7 to understand the deeper layers of this law:

טלית שאולה מן התורה פטורה מן הציצית לעולם שנא' כסותך ולא של אחרים ומדברי סופרים לחייבה בציצית אחר שלשים יום מפני שכל הרואה אותו שלבשה שלשים יום סבור שהיא שלו שאין דרך להשאיל ביתר משלשים יום ויביא עצמו בכך לידי חשד:

“A borrowed cloak is biblically exempt from tzitzit forever, as it is said: 'Your cloak' Deuteronomy 22:12 and not the cloak of others. However, by rabbinic decree, one is obligated to place tzitzit on it after thirty days, because anyone who sees him wearing it for thirty days will assume it is his own—since it is not customary to lend a garment for more than thirty days—and he will thus bring himself into suspicion.”

The Meiri brings down a beautiful legal distinction. Biblically, if a garment isn't yours, you are never obligated to put Tzitzit on it, because the Torah says: "You shall make fringes on your cloak"—meaning, the one that belongs to you, not someone else.

But the Rabbis stepped in and said: "Wait a minute. If you wear that borrowed cloak for more than thirty days, people are going to start thinking it’s yours. They don't know you borrowed it. They will see you walking around without Tzitzit and assume you are neglecting the mitzvah. Therefore, to avoid suspicion, after thirty days, you must put Tzitzit on it."

How this translates to our homes:

This is one of the most powerful metaphors for human development in the entire Talmud.

Think about the "borrowed garments" we wear in our lives. When you first get married, you are wearing the "garment" of a spouse, but you don't quite know how to fit into it yet. It feels a bit loose, a bit awkward. When you bring home a new baby, you are wearing the "garment" of a parent, but you feel like an imposter. You are just trying it on.

During those first thirty days—or that initial season of transition—the Torah gives you a grace period. You are exempt from having it all figured out. You don't have to put your "fringes" (your unique spiritual and personal identity) on this new role yet. You are allowed to just "borrow" it, to test the waters, to stumble, to learn.

But then, the thirty days pass. The role becomes yours.

The Meiri warns us about the danger of living in "borrowed garments" for too long without making them our own. If you wear a borrowed cloak forever without ever putting your own Tzitzit on it, you lose your authenticity. You start living merely to satisfy the "suspicion" and expectations of others, wearing a costume rather than a true garment of the soul.

In our families, we have to transition from "borrowing" our identities to "owning" them. We have to take the roles we play—spouse, parent, professional, Jew—and weave our own threads of authenticity into them. We have to make sure that the life we are living is actually ours, and not just a borrowed script we are reciting to keep up appearances for the neighbors.

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Micro-Ritual

How do we bring this campfire wisdom down from the stars and into our actual homes this Friday night?

We are going to introduce a micro-ritual called "The Techum Transition" (The Boundary Blessing).

At camp, Friday night began with a physical transition. We would wash off the dust of the week, put on our white shirts, and walk together to the outdoor chapel. We crossed a physical threshold.

This Friday night, before you sit down for dinner, create a physical "Techum" (boundary) in your home to transition from the chaotic week of "Sura" (the world of rules, tasks, and demands) into the peaceful weekend of "Pumbedita" (the world of freedom, connection, and joy).

Step-by-Step Guide:

1. The Threshold Basket: Place a beautiful basket or wooden bowl right near your dining room table or front door. This is your "Tatlefush Fence."
2. The Phone Deposit: As each family member or guest approaches the table, they must physically deposit their phone into the basket. But here is the key: as you drop your phone in, you state one "borrowed garment" (a stress, a work task, an expectation) that you are taking off for the next 25 hours. You might say: "I am taking off the garment of 'busy manager' and leaving it in the basket."
3. The Candle Niggun: After lighting the Shabbat candles, don't just stand there in silence. Sing a simple, wordless niggun together—the same one we started with. Let the melody fill the space between you.
4. The Custom Blessing: Before the meal, go around the table and share one "home custom" that you love about your family. It could be as simple as: "I love that in our house, our custom is to eat dessert first on Friday night," or "I love that our custom is to tell funny stories." Celebrate the unique "minhag" (custom) of your home, recognizing that your home doesn't have to look like anyone else's.

By physically marking the boundary of your table, you are fencing in your own "unguarded valley" and protecting the sacred spark of your family’s connection.

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Chevruta Mini

Now it’s your turn to spark the fire. Grab a partner, a friend, or your spouse, and discuss these two questions over a drink or a walk:

1. What is one "fence" you have built in your life or home that has actually brought you more freedom and joy? On the flip side, is there a "fence" you are keeping up that has become too restrictive and needs to be taken down?
2. Think about the different "borrowed garments" (roles, career paths, expectations) you are currently wearing. How can you start weaving your own "threads of tzitzit" into them to make them feel more authentic to who you really are?

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Takeaway

As the embers of our campfire start to fade into the night, let’s hold onto the core truth of Chullin 110a:

Our homes are holy sanctuaries, but they are also deeply human spaces. We don't have to be perfect. We don't have to wear our "Tefillin" when our hearts are heavy, and we don't have to live by the rigid rules of "Sura" if our souls thrive in the creative freedom of "Pumbedita."

Go build your fences with love. Protect your valley. Wear your garments with pride, and never be afraid to step outside the boundaries to taste the sweetness of your own unique path.

Shabbat Shalom!