Gefilte Fish Blues.

In order to be open-minded, one needs to experience as much of the world as possible. The intangible benefit of being a teacher is continuing your 'education' both academically and otherwise; being a life-long learner. To experience the world, you either need to travel it (went to Ireland/parts of Europe--CHECK) or gain insights through hands-on activities with other cultures, learning both from the people you interact with and from the traditions/norms/mores of those people (Acquire black friends--CHECK and CHECK!!). Though I do have friends of color, that's not the end-all-be-all of becoming culturally acclimatized.

I really checked that box and expanded my perceptions a bit on Thursday, October 9. This day, to those who just searched Wikipedia (me...), being the most important day in the Jewish religion: Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yom Kippur is the final day after Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) in which the ten days in between are used for reflection and repentance of sin. The final day consists of a 25 hour period of fasting and many hours spent in temple devoted to prayer services and more reflection.


And you thought the Christian services were long?

Try sitting through that, plus not being able to eat from the night before or drink fluids or, God save us, engage in sexual relations. A 25 hour period of not being allowed to eat Domino's or drink Gatorade or bang your girlfriend in religious observation to most Americans is like Kirstie Alley running the Boston Marathon.


It ain't happenin'.



Big meals have become our holidays. Thanksgiving is, well, Thanksgiving, but take the two religious holidays widely celebrated in America for example: Christmas and Easter.

After church in the morning, those who observe go home to their families and cook a huge meal. Turkey or ham, potatoes, stuffing, etc. The Works. At Easter, Americans gorge themselves so full of chocolate eggs, jelly beans and marshmallow Peeps, they're incontinent for a month afterward. Easter being the final of 40 days of lent--which also consists of fasting and prayer. This has been augmented in the western cultures so instead of fasting, we are just supposed to give up some sort of vice for the 40 days to show resiliency in the face of temptation (heroin, prostitutes, cookies etc.). This nearly always turns into half-assed, half-hearted attempts that fail miserably, sometimes within minutes of Lent beginning.

All in all, God can't be pleased with us.

So that brings us back to Rosh Hashanah. I was chatting with a good friend, wishing her a happy new year when she popped the big proposal: "You should come to Yom Kippur dinner!"
Now this wasn't completely random. There was always a loose invitation, as the event garnered a mixture of Jews and nons alike. She, let's call her Christy, considers herself Jewish. She's half. So at least I knew I wouldn't be the sole gentile repping the Messiah as her mother would back me up.
The other reason I was invited was because the dinner took place literally four minutes from school in West Newton.

I dressed up nicely as to not piss off my hungry hosts and drove over to the house. The dinner was at her grandmother's (Bubby) in a wealthy neighborhood of West Newton. After writing I realize that it's completely contradictory, but her house was straight-up 70s cocaine-dealing/Johnny Depp in 'Blow' ranch style. No second floor, just a long stretch of abode. The insides were very much in the old lady style; ugly end tables, elaborate sculptures depicting Moses only knows, and a bizarre mixture of arts books and other literature you've never heard of, let alone would ever pick up to begin with. I took it all in as I drank my glass of wine and prepared for the hordes of hungry Jews descending upon the house; 40 in total.

Insert non-practicing Catholic.

If you've ever been around a huge number of people that you don't know, but who all know each other, that was me. Smiling like an idiot and introducing myself to people whose names I forgot moments later, I tried to not stand out too much.

For those unfamiliar, non-Jews reading, after sundown is when the break-fast (pronounced 'brake' not 'breck') happens. Everyone returns from temple and the feast commences. Once the droves came to the house, they all flocked around a tiny table to eat Challah (pronounced 'holla'), a special bread that is usually topped with honey, a cinnamon raisin type bread and, yes, gefilte fish.

Everything I knew that is Jewish I learned from HBO's 'Curb Your Enthusiasm', so the first time I heard about this traditional culinary delight was in the episode "The Ski Lift." He pretends to be a Hasidic Jew in order to get a kidney for Richard Lewis. GREAT episode.

I went ahead an checked Wikipedia again and gefilte fish is described as "slightly sweet and savory." Now, I'm no culinary debutant but the ball o'gray-looking fish that I put into my mouth was anything but tasty, let alone sweet or savory. I've eaten tastier bark mulch.

The texture reminded me of what watered down Spackle feels like when inserted onto the palette and what little taste it did have derived from some weeks-old tuna fish with onions sans mayonnaise concoction that your grandmother feeds you every time you're at the house. It's only edible when smothered in the horseradish sauce and even that nearly triggers the gag reflex. Bad Jewish Dinner Situation #1.

We ate our dinner and settled down to digest, senseless arguing taking place around me (like I imagined, just without the interjected Yiddish) and I went to fix a cup of tea. I sat down and engaged in the small talk that involved many, many fake chuckles. We all employ these in awkward social situations, so those who don't know what the Fake-Chuck is need to turn off the Japanese porn and leave their parents' windowless basements right now.

It was then, idly and innocently sipping on my tea, when Bad Jewish Dinner Situation # 2 occurred. Ruth, one of Christy's elderly relatives, sat across the table. She did speak despite her frailty, but with a furrowed brow, one that looked more of confusion than disappointment or anger. I suspected she was around 118 years of age and that the onus of being old simply weighed down her forehead.

As I neared the end of my hot beverage she gestured towards me, furrowed brow and all, and asked if the tea bag I used was decaffeinated. I ran some numbers in my head and determined that if she drank anything caffeinated, she would be awake for a minimum of eight months. I responded yes and, being the polite young man I am, got up to get her a bag of her own. But then something very strange happened. She used all of her energy to flail her arms in a 'No' fashion and motioned to me to give her mine...

So here was an ex-girlfriend of Moses wanting my dilapidated, used up and now very cold tea bag perched on the edge of my saucer---subjected to cake crumbs and The Elements for some time now.

Now, I'm nowhere close to calling myself a tea expert. I'd say I'm a very moderate tea enthusiast at best. I drank it a lot in Ireland, my mom drinks it, that's it. But holy fuck there has to be some sacred rule broken to re-use a spent teabag! The gods of this timeless product were not smiling when I unsteadily handed over my already drowned sack of chopped up leaves. So she took it with her dainty fingers, swished it around for all of one second and placed it on a napkin, giving her former cup of clear hot water the look that somebody had just poured her a steaming bowl of urine.


And so ended my first Jewish holiday extravaganza. I had spent time with a large group of older Jews, tasted some awful fish product and shared a used teabag with an octogenarian. All in all, I learned a lot, got some interesting perspectives and opened my eyes to the sweet, savory and weird world around me...