BLAND AND THE BOYS

Linda is the perfect Rebbetzin. Had I been a chef, we would have visited divorce court. I call Linda a “selective anorexic,” who will not eat the foods that I adore. Her bland tastes have fallen into the hell created by a husband who lives by chili pepper and Geschmorte Rindszunge.

Sushi is slimy fish, so we don’t eat Japanese together. Mexican food reeks of cilantro, so we do not venture south of the border. Indian? The odor of cumin is too strong. Thai? Too spicy. German? Ach du lieber! Too rich!

What should I do if my wife refuses ceviche and considers meat loaf haute cuisine? Without her cooperation, who might enjoy sampling my offerings in Greenville, a town so backward that a fancy dinner means pizza?

But, there is a tidbit of good fortune for us. In this ultra-conservative town, we have the mazal of living next door to one of the few gay couples in the county. We simply call them “the boys,” and they will eat anything that I serve and take home the rest. They call me “the food pimp.”

They have their own rating system: how much my creations resemble their goische counterparts: “Ah, the chopped liver might as well be pate de foie. The cholent is better than cassoulet. The apfel schalent surpasses any American apple pie.”

There are, of course, foods so noxious that even the boys refuse them. They will never try pitscha just by looking at it: Viscous, grainy, and that disgusting cow’s foot. Spinach borscht looks like . . . well, you know what it looks like. A gelatinous pickled fish head is just creepy.

I have taught the boys many Jewish words in the process: milchig, pareve, kugel, gefilte fish, matzo balls. They love trying to say words when I invite to dinner: “This kishke is wonderful! The kugel is simply divine!”

One Shabbos I decided to bake a special challah for them. They looked at it, sniffed and announced, “Berches? We thought that only Yekkes ate that! Aren’t you an Ostjude? Next you’ll be feeding us Bohnen-Suppe! What’s wrong with you?”