HIGH HOLIDAYS TORTURE TABLES

“Good things come to those who wait.”

So, I waited and waited for 35 years to abdicate the rabbinate. For the first time, I will spend the Yom Tovim with my family, not having to worry about my sermons or whether the chazzan would take too long singing Kol Nidre.

After all those years, I will finally have the time and energy to prepare my own gourmet holiday feasts. Whether they are delicious or not, my family and friends will have to feed my fragile ego by telling me that they were “marvelous,” and once again, I will have to klop an Al Chet for the sin of arrogance.

But how many years did I spend in other people’s dining rooms futilely trying to ingest Yom Tov meals that we would universally declare torturous?

Have any of you had gritty gefilte fish? No, not gritty from too much matzo meal, but gritty because they were riddled with shrapnel of fish bones that the balaboste was either too lazy or too cruel to remove.

While we are on the subject of appetizers, how could I not forget walking with a congregant to his house for lunch on Rosh Hashanah. He prated on and on about his wife’s cooking, every superlative synonym, as if he’d swallowed Roget’s for breakfast.

Nu? You have already figured out the rest of the story, but not the magnitude of its horror. Each place was set with a reddish-brown lump atop the customary leaf of lettuce. After Kiddush and Motzi, the balabos insisted, “Go ahead, try it.”
I tried. And the liver oozed blood. Rare chopped liver. The prospects of chug-a-lugging liver blood and contracting e-coli ran neck-and-neck in my imagination. Then, an atypical stroke of genius: I reached under the table with my fork and stabbed my hands and arms with the tines. Reaching up, I asked the balaboste what kind of oil she used.

“Canola.”

“Canola?” I shrieked. “You can’t imagine how allergic I am to canola,” and displayed the horrible “rash” on my arm. Beware of rare chopped, and keep your fork nearby.

What do you eat before Yom Kippur? Scientists have debated the issue, but none of them has found anything yet to prevent my backache. Beside, isn’t rotten the way we’re supposed to feel on Yom Kippur?

One Erev One Yom Kippur dinner was particularly memorable. To set the backdrop, the hosts had a huge parrot that kept screaming, “Elliot!” throughout the meal. The lady of the house preceded the main course with a chicken soup that shimmered with layer of fat so thick and shiny that women were furtively checking their hairdos in it. Not to be outdone, the turkey was so hairy that it begged fitting as a toupee.

Then there was another Erev Yom Kippur trying to go into the fast on a dinner of Froot Loops Chicken. Someone must have thought that it was the culinary equivalent of A+B=C. Sweet chicken tastes good. Breaded chicken tastes good. Therefore, Froot Loops Chicken must taste good. Maybe in your world. In my world, it’s one of those “funny recipes from kids” on Leno. How about chocolate-dipped herring?

A girlfriend once took me home on Rosh Hashanah to meet the family. The aroma of holiday dinner wafted from her aunt’s kitchen. A beautiful table was set with honey, apples and round challah.

I recited the Kiddush. They were impressed. They presented the appetizer. Hmm. It was too smooth to be gefilte fish. And besides, it was pink. I tentatively tasted it.

“This is delicious,” I said to the host. “What is it?”

“It’s crabmeat salad. It’s our tradition to eat it on the first night of Rosh Hashanah.”

Fortunately, the dog ate it ravenously. Afterward, I asked my girlfriend if there were any other family secrets that I should know about. I made it plain that crabmeat salad even once a year was a deal breaker. Then I told her that if we were to go any further, I would happily dye the gefilte fish pink.