Chullin 110

Hook

Imagine a sun-drenched courtyard in Baghdad or a bustling market street in Aleppo, where the air is thick with the scent of toasted cumin, roasted coriander, and slow-simmering meats. In the Sephardi and Mizrahi world, the kitchen is not merely a place of physical nourishment; it is a sacred laboratory where the sensory beauty of the physical world meets the precise, intellectual architecture of the Torah.

Here, the sizzling of an udder (kachal) or the roasting of a liver over open coals is not just a culinary art—it is a living dialogue with the Talmudic sages of Sura and Pumbedita. Our heritage has never looked at the material world with suspicion; rather, we elevate the sensory world through the prism of halakha (law) and minhag (custom), transforming the simple act of preparing a meal into a song of devotion.

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Context

To understand the dynamic discussion in Chullin 110a, we must ground ourselves in the soil from which these traditions grew:

• The Place: The twin academies of Babylonia—Sura, situated near the quiet waters of the Euphrates, and Pumbedita, bustling with intellectual energy further north. These ancient centers of learning established the foundational rhythms of the Jewish calendar, law, and liturgy that would eventually travel across the Mediterranean to North Africa, Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain), and the Middle East.
• The Era: The late Talmudic period (circa 4th to 6th century CE), transitioning into the golden era of the Geonim (7th to 11th century CE). This was a time of immense movement, where scholars traveled between Eretz Yisrael and Babylonia, carrying with them not only physical manuscripts but also the oral, musical, and culinary customs of their home communities.
• The Community: A civilization of merchants, scholars, poets, and home cooks who viewed halakha as a living, breathing reality. In this world, the authority of local custom (minhag) was fiercely protected. A community's way of slaughtering, cooking, singing, or wearing garments was not a casual preference; it was an ancestral inheritance, a holy covenant with the past.

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Text Snapshot

The following passage from Chullin 110a captures a vibrant, sometimes humorous confrontation between two different regional standards of practice, followed by a series of sharp halakhic exchanges regarding the nature of local custom, bodily purity, and the mitzvot of tzitzit and tefillin.

Talmud Aramaic Source Chullin 110a:8

בְּסוּרָא לָא אָכְלִי כַּחְלָא, בְּפוּמְבְּדִּיתָא אָכְלִי כַּחְלָא. רָמִי בַּר תַּמְרֵי, דְּהוּא רָמִי בַּר דִּיקוּלֵי מִפּוּמְבְּדִּיתָא, אִיקְּלַע לְסוּרָא בְּמַעֲלֵי יוֹמָא דְכִפּוּרֵי. שַׁדְיִנְהוּ כּוּלֵּי עָלְמָא לְכַחְלֵי דִּידְהוּ, אֲזַל אִיהוּ קַשְׁרִינְהוּ וַאֲכַלִינְהוּ. אַיְיתְיוּהוּ לְקַמֵּיהּ דְּרַב חִסְדָּא...

English Translation

In Sura they would not eat udders at all, even if torn and roasted. But in Pumbedita they would eat udders. Rami bar Tamrei, who is also called Rami bar Dikulei, from Pumbedita, arrived in Sura on the eve of Yom Kippur. Since it is a mitzva to eat and drink then, large quantities of meat were cooked, and everyone brought out their udders from the animals they had slaughtered and threw them away. Rami bar Tamrei went and gathered the udders, roasted them, and ate them, in accordance with his custom. The residents of Sura brought him before Rav Ḥisda...

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Classic Commentaries on Chullin 110a

To deepen our intermediate understanding of this text, we turn to the foundational commentators who illuminated these legal and cultural pathways.

Steinsaltz on Chullin 110a:1

The Talmud discusses a suckling lamb or calf cooked in its mother's milk. Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz clarifies the underlying mechanics:

שבשלה בחלבה (החלב שינק הגדי מאמו) — הריהי אסורה, שאפילו 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 one cooked it in its milk (the milk that the kid nursed from its mother)—it is prohibited, so that even post facto [if the thing was done] he may not eat it. Therefore, the Tanna also taught the first clause [the beginning of the Baraita] in the language of post facto. However, according to the letter of the law, even ab initio it is permitted to roast an udder with its milk.”

Rashi on Chullin 110a:10:1

When Rav Chisda questions Rami bar Tamrei on why he is not wearing tefillin, Rami cites his intestinal illness. Rashi explains:

פטור מן התפילין - מפני שצריך לחלצן תדיר

“Exempt from phylacteries (tefillin)—because he needs to remove them constantly [due to his condition, and tefillin require a clean body and focused attention].”

Steinsaltz on Chullin 110a:10

Steinsaltz expands on this encounter, highlighting the expectations of the Babylonian scholars:

חזייה דלא הוה מנח... תפילין, וכדרכם של תלמידי חכמים שתפילין בראשיהם... אמר ליה: חולי מעיין הוא (אני)... שכן תפילין דורשות גוף נקי...

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

Rabbeinu Gershom on Chullin 110a:10-11

The light of the early European commentators, whose work closely aligned with the Geonic text-transmission, notes the transition to the next question:

חזיה. דלית ליה חוטי ציצית... פטורה מן הציצית כל ל' יום. כלומר בתוך ל' יום אבל אם שאלה יותר מל' יום חייבת בציצית.

“He saw: that he did not have the threads of tzitzit... [Regarding the borrowed robe], it is exempt from tzitzit all thirty days. Meaning: within thirty days, but if he borrowed it for more than thirty days, it is obligated in tzitzit.”

Meiri on Chullin 110a:7

The great Provencal commentator, Rabbeinu Menachem Meiri, whose legal methodology deeply influenced Sephardic codifiers, provides the conceptual framework for the borrowed garment:

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 robe is exempt from tzitzit according to the Torah forever, as it is written: 'your garment' Deuteronomy 22:12 and not the garment of others. But by rabbinic decree, one is obligated to place tzitzit on it after thirty days, because anyone who sees him wearing it for more than thirty days will assume it is his—since it is not customary to lend a garment for more than thirty days—and he would thus bring suspicion upon himself [for neglecting a mitzvah].”

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Minhag/Melody

The Tapestry of Minhag: From Sura to Pumbedita

The story of Rami bar Tamrei is much more than a comical anecdote about a traveler scavaging discarded animal organs on the eve of the holiest day of the year. It is a profound, foundational text on the nature of minhag (custom) and the autonomy of regional communities.

In the Sephardi and Mizrahi world, the concept of minhag is treated with the utmost reverence. The Geonim of Babylonia taught that a long-established local custom has the force of law (minhag abbahu Torah hi—the custom of our fathers is Torah). This is why the Talmudic discussion carefully distinguishes between Sura and Pumbedita. Sura was more conservative, often adopting protective stringencies (chumrot), while Pumbedita was famous for its intellectual sharpness, its pragmatism, and its defense of baseline Talmudic permissions.

When Rami bar Tamrei enters Sura, he represents the quintessential Pumbeditan: bold, highly analytical, and refusing to adopt stringencies that he deems halakhically unnecessary. When the people of Sura throw away their udders (because they do not eat them), Rami does not see waste as a holy act; he sees a culinary opportunity. He gathers the udders, roasts them, and eats them.

When hauled before the great sage Rav Chisda, Rami does not back down. He defends his actions with razor-sharp legal arguments, proving that he did not violate the local boundaries of Sura because he ate the meat outside the city limits, used old grape seeds that were no longer forbidden as idolatrous libations, and was exempt from tefillin and tzitzit due to precise halakhic exemptions (intestinal illness and a borrowed garment).

The Musicality of Halakha: Maqamat and the Piyut of Custom

This dynamic interplay of local custom is beautifully reflected in the musical traditions of Sephardic and Mizrahi Jews, particularly through the system of Maqamat (the Middle Eastern system of melodic modes). Just as Rami bar Tamrei carried his local Pumbeditan customs with him, Sephardic Jews who traveled from Aleppo to Cairo, or from Baghdad to Jerusalem, carried their unique musical heritages.

In the Jerusalem-Sephardic tradition, the liturgy of the Shabbat morning service is not sung to a fixed, unvarying melody. Instead, the cantor navigates the prayers through a specific Maqam that corresponds to the theme of the weekly Torah portion. For example, if the Torah portion deals with laws, judgments, or the giving of the Torah, the cantor might choose Maqam Rast—the mode of leadership, stability, and law. If the portion deals with redemption or joy, they might select Maqam Mahour or Maqam Gahar.

This musical adaptability mirrors the halakhic precision of the Talmud. A Sephardic cantor must be a master of both structure and improvisation. They must know the exact boundaries of the prayers (the "halakha" of the liturgy) while beautifully adapting the musical clothing (the "minhag") to fit the spiritual mood of the day.

When we sing the classic piyutim (liturgical poems) on the eve of Yom Kippur—the very day Rami bar Tamrei was navigating the streets of Sura—we do so with melodies that have been preserved for generations. Consider the famous Spanish-Portuguese and Moroccan piyut, Anot Ke’urim or the Iraqi melody for Adon Haselihot. These melodies are not merely decorative; they are the musical soul of the community, carrying the emotional weight of our ancestors' prayers.

Just as Rami bar Tamrei defended his dietary and ritual practices with precise appeals to his teachers in Pumbedita, so too do we sing our prayers with the exact vocal ornaments, microtones, and rhythms passed down from our ancestors in Baghdad, Sana'a, or Casablanca.

The Iraqi Kitchen and the Ben Ish Chai's Legacy

To see how this Talmudic discussion in Chullin 110a lives on in the Sephardic home, we look to the writings of Rabbi Yosef Chaim of Baghdad (1835–1909), known universally as the Ben Ish Chai. In his classic work of halakha and homily, the Ben Ish Chai spent immense energy codifying the precise laws of food preparation, ensuring that the joy of eating was never compromised, but always elevated through holiness.

In the traditional Iraqi and Syrian kitchens, the preparation of liver (kaved) and udder (kachal) was a common occurrence. Because liver is saturated with blood, and udder is filled with milk, their preparation requires specialized knowledge.

According to the Shulchan Arukh (the Code of Jewish Law compiled by the Sephardic master Rabbi Yosef Karo), one cannot simply cook liver in a pot with other meat, as the blood will exude and render the entire dish non-kosher. Instead, the liver must be salted and roasted over an open fire, allowing the blood to drip away completely. Only after this roasting process can it be cooked in a pot.

The Sephardic kitchen approach to this is one of joyous mastery. Rather than avoiding these complex foods out of a fear of making a mistake, the Sephardic housewife and cook master the physical laws of nature. They turn the roasting of liver into a festive ritual.

On Sunday mornings or festive afternoons, the coals are lit, the liver is skewered, and the rich aroma fills the air. This is a direct continuation of the Talmudic practice described by Rav Zerika: "I cooked liver for Rabbi Ami and he ate it" Chullin 110a:13. There is no fear of the material world; there is only the holy discipline of transforming the raw and the complex into the delicious and the permitted.

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Contrast

The Halakhic Treatment of Udder and Liver: Sephardi vs. Ashkenazi

When we compare the Sephardic and Ashkenazi approaches to the laws of kachal (udder) and kaved (liver), we find a beautiful study in contrast. Both traditions seek to guard the Torah's boundaries, but they do so through different cultural and legal methodologies.

+------------------+--------------------------------------+--------------------------------------+
| Halakhic Area    | Sephardic Minhag (Maran Yosef Karo)   | Ashkenazi Minhag (Rema)              |
+------------------+--------------------------------------+--------------------------------------+
| Udder (Kachal)   | Permitted to roast and eat ab initio | Highly restricted; generally avoided |
|                  | if properly cut and prepared.        | in contemporary practice.            |
+------------------+--------------------------------------+--------------------------------------+
| Liver (Kaved)    | Roast over fire; may be cooked in a  | Roast over fire; preferred not to    |
|                  | pot after roasting without issue.    | cook in a pot after roasting.        |
+------------------+--------------------------------------+--------------------------------------+
| Borrowed Tallit  | No blessing is made if borrowed      | A blessing is made if borrowed       |
|                  | temporarily for prayer.              | specifically for the mitzvah.        |
+------------------+--------------------------------------+--------------------------------------+

In the Sephardic tradition, which closely follows the ruling of Maran Rabbi Yosef Karo in the Shulchan Arukh Shulchan Arukh, Yoreh Deah 73, the baseline Talmudic permissions are maintained. If an udder is cut open, its milk drained, and it is roasted over coals, it is fully permitted to be eaten. The Sephardic legal ethos is generally hesitant to create new, permanent rabbinic prohibitions (gezeirot) that were not explicitly enacted by the Talmud itself. There is a deep trust in the classical Talmudic system and in the ability of the individual Jew to execute the law correctly.

In contrast, the Ashkenazi tradition, codified by the Rema (Rabbi Moses Isserles), tends to adopt a more protective posture. Out of a fear that a layperson might confuse the milk of an udder with ordinary dairy, or fail to cut the udder correctly, the Ashkenazi custom became to avoid eating udders altogether in almost all circumstances.

Similarly, regarding liver, while both traditions require roasting, Ashkenazi practice is highly hesitant to cook the roasted liver in a pot afterward, preferring to eat it dry-roasted, whereas Sephardim happily stew the roasted liver in rich tomato and garlic sauces.

The Borrowed Garment: Tzitzit and the Meiri’s Insight

Another beautiful contrast emerges from the discussion of the borrowed robe (tallit sha'ulah) in Chullin 110a:11. Rami bar Tamrei defends his lack of tzitzit by stating that his garment was borrowed, and thus exempt from tzitzit for the first thirty days.

As the Meiri explains in his commentary Meiri on Chullin 110a:7:

"...מדברי סופרים לחייבה בציצית אחר שלשים יום מפני שכל הרואה אותו שלבשה שלשים יום סבור שהיא שלו..."

"...But by rabbinic decree, one is obligated to place tzitzit on it after thirty days, because anyone who sees him wearing it for more than thirty days will assume it is his..."

This concept of mar'it ayin (preventing the appearance of wrongdoing) is central to both Ashkenazi and Sephardic law, but the practical application of the borrowed garment blessing differs.

In Sephardic practice, if you borrow a tallit from a friend or a synagogue rack to pray the morning service, you are wearing a borrowed garment. Because you do not own it, and you are using it for less than thirty days, the essential Torah obligation does not apply to you. Therefore, according to the Rambam Mishneh Torah, Tzitzit 3:3 and the Shulchan Arukh, you do not recite a blessing over a borrowed tallit. To make a blessing over a garment that is halakhically exempt would be to risk pronouncing the Divine Name in vain (berakha le-vatala). The Sephardic approach prioritizes the avoidance of unnecessary blessings, guarding the sanctity of speech.

In the Ashkenazi tradition, however, the focus is placed on the active fulfillment of the mitzvah of wrapping oneself in tzitzit. Ashkenazi authorities argue that when you borrow a tallit for the purpose of prayer, the owner temporarily gifts it to you so that you can fulfill the mitzvah. Therefore, it is considered "yours" for the duration of the prayer, and you do recite a blessing over it.

Neither path is superior; both are holy. The Ashkenazi path seeks to maximize the moments of conscious, blessed connection to the mitzvah, while the Sephardic path guards the absolute purity of the blessing, ensuring that the Divine Name is only invoked when there is an absolute, unambiguous obligation.

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Home Practice

Elevating the Table: The Piyut of the Meal

How do we bring the spirit of Rami bar Tamrei, the wisdom of Sura and Pumbedita, and the rich culinary heritage of the Sephardic world into our own modern homes? We do so by transforming our dinner table into an altar of song and mindfulness.

In many Mizrahi communities, particularly among Syrian, Moroccan, and Yemeni Jews, a meal is never just about consuming calories. It is accompanied by the singing of Shashu’a Yom Yom or other table piyutim. These are poetic songs that weave together praise of God, love for the Torah, and appreciation for the food we are eating.

Here is a simple, beautiful practice you can adopt this week:

1. Select a Table Song (Piyut): Before you begin your meal, or between the main course and dessert, sing a short Sephardic song or psalm. A classic choice is Psalm 23 (Mizmor Le-David) sung to a traditional Middle Eastern melody, or the beautiful piyut Ki Eshmera Shabbat written by the great Spanish sage Abraham Ibn Ezra.
2. Practice Culinary Mindfulness: As you prepare your food—whether it is a simple vegetable dish or a complex meat recipe—take a moment to think about the physical laws of nature that make the food permissible and delicious. If you are washing lettuce to check for bugs, or salting meat, do not view it as a chore. View it as a form of spiritual alchemy, just as our ancestors did when they roasted liver or prepared the udder in ancient Babylonia.
3. Honor the Guest’s Minhag: Inspired by the dialogue between Rav Chisda and Rami bar Tamrei, make it a rule in your home to never mock or dismiss another person's family custom. If a guest comes to your table who has a different way of washing their hands, making a blessing, or observing a stringency, welcome them with open arms. True halakhic mastery is not about proving yourself superior; it is about creating a space where different streams of Torah can flow together in harmony.

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Takeaway

The lively debate in Chullin 110a teaches us that our differences are not bugs in the system of Torah; they are its features. The dynamic tension between Sura and Pumbedita, between the traveler and the host, and between Sephardi and Ashkenazi customs is what keeps the Torah alive, textured, and deeply human.

The Sephardi and Mizrahi heritage invites us to approach the Torah with the same qualities that Rami bar Tamrei possessed: intellectual sharpness, a deep respect for our ancestral roots, and a healthy dose of pragmatism.

As we navigate our own modern lives, let us remember that the food we eat, the clothes we wear, and the songs we sing are all opportunities to bring the Divine presence down into the physical world. Let us cook with joy, sing with passion, and respect the holy boundaries of our neighbors, knowing that every kitchen can become a temple, and every table can become an altar of praise.