3.28.10

Life as we knew it was forever changed after my mother died. And none of us was ready for the change. We muddled through the rest of the year, my sisters and I poring ourselves into school, Dad frantically trying to find himself, our home incessantly empty and quiet. Even though everyone had made it their favorite pastime to set Army up with a “nice girl,” no one found one that seemed to suit him. And then he met Roz.

At first, we were thrilled when Dad began dating her a few weeks after the new year.  She appeared to be a very fastidious, well-spoken, well-dressed woman who could provide Dad with some well-needed companionship.  And we were happy to leave it at that.  But he wasn’t. All too soon he became smitten. Completely enamored by her. Totally consumed by her. He did what she wanted to do. Went where she wanted to go. Associated with the people she preferred. Her every desire became his command. They became inseparable. And we became resentful.

So, it was no wonder that we were not happy when Dad insisted that we have Passover Seder at her home in Northeast Philadelphia. It was, after all, Holy Week, and this was going to infringe on our Italian Easter observances. Worse yet, we had come to think of her as a manipulator, and we were sure her holiday would overshadow ours. But, in deference to Dad, we went grudgingly, totally unprepared for what was to come.

As usual, she looked as if she had stepped out of a bandbox. Designer attire. Carefully manicured nails. Perfectly coiffed hair. Diamond rings dotting her fingers. Gold bracelets dangling from her wrists. And it was obvious that she had tackled the usual Passover cleaning with a passion. Her house sparkled, as did the china, crystal, and silver reserved for these special meals. Every room was filled with French antiques that had been polished to a high gleam. And the imported figural lamps and figurines looked as though they had been cleaned with a toothbrush.

But it was the dining room that totally astonished me. A wide array of macaroons, cheesecakes, and chocolate delicacies graced the sideboard along with an epergne of fresh fruit. And on the dining table was the traditional Seder plate surrounded by chopped liver with herbed matzo and a huge fish that she had diligently boned and stuffed with the traditional gefilte fish mixture. I stared in amazement and disbelief as I realized that the middle leaf of the dining room table was missing, which virtually divided the table into two distinct and separate sections—each set with different china, crystal, and silver.

“This is a very high holiday, Army,” Roz began to explain, “and all of my other guests are Kosher. They cannot share a table with you and your daughters during the Seder, so I have prepared a separate area for you.”

It took us hours to devour that meal—miniature cabbage rolls stuffed with beef, spring asparagus with a lemon sauce, salmon filets prepared with white wine and tarragon, tiny meatballs with a sweet and sour sauce, potato pancakes with dried apples, boneless lamb leg infused with herbs, baby artichokes with drawn butter, roasted game hens with a matzo mushroom stuffing, French green beans with mushrooms. But although the food was delicious and had obviously been a labor of love for Roz, it was the most laborious meal we have ever had to agonize through.    True to form, though, Roz was the consummate hostess, effortlessly pouring wine, serving course after course, and speaking back and forth between the tables—Yiddish to her Kosher friends, English to us. Dad—never one for keeping his opinions to himself—paid no heed to the work that must have gone into preparing the meal, let alone the feat of constructing that amazing gefilte fish, as he nonchalantly announced—

“Roz, your gefilte fish would really taste much better if you would use something other than carp. Carp eat off the bottom of the river and have a muddy, mushy flavor. Why don’t you get a nice large sea bass?” Bass are not scavengers and would make a much tastier gefilte fish.”

About the Idiom

The saying, "food for thought," means something is worth considering or taking seriously. A metaphoric saying that relates digestion of the stomach to mulling an idea over in one's mind, this idiom dates back to the early 1800s but has origins as far back as 1500.