SLICE IT RARE FOR THE SAKE OF THE POOR

Contrary to my usual perception as rabbi in our little village, I was recently asked to prepare a buffet for a local charity ball. The greatest irony, to be sure, was that 200 gentiles unwittingly dined on haute cuisine prepared in a meticulously kosher kitchen.

Now on to the strictly kosher menu: First, my jambalaya, a dish that originated with French-Canadians who immigrated to Louisiana. Jambalaya is highly seasoned rice containing chicken, sausage, vegetables and shrimp, or so they thought. For Yehudim who do mix fish with meat, halibut is a delicious substitute for the mud-groveling crustacean, and the goyim were none the wiser.

Then, I brought forth a tureen of Caribbean ceviche, which one might call “sushi for cowards”: raw tuna, tomatoes, onions, peppers, all pickled together for a few hours in lime juice. As the local aristocrats bathed in it, all I could think was that it would be wonderful to serve at a bris.

The piece de resistance, however, posed a deep dilemma. In the course of gathering contributions, I had unthinkingly schnorred a monstrous chunk of treife roast beef from a local hotel. The hotel would roast it in its oven.

Ah, but who would carve it? By now, you should know that the only schlemiel who knew how to wield a knife was . . . the rabbi! For three hours, I sliced roast beef for 200. “Would you like yours rare? Well done? Another slice? Some sauce for that?

They loved every morsel. And whom do you think they assumed roasted it? I tried not to burst their balloon: “Wherever did you get that roast?” From a friend. “How did you roast it?” In a friend’s oven. “What seasonings did you use?” That’s a secret. “How long did you marinate it?” Hours and hours.

When I arrived home, I kashered my hands and tongue with a blowtorch. I made these solemn vows: to teach someone else how to carve a roast, to never get so drunk on Purim that I blurt out this episode, and to warn my grandchildren to be careful what they schnorr.