1   

So what’s doing in Lake Michigan,

the lady in the little red coat asks

the owner of Frank’s Fish Market,

mecca for bones, flesh, unseeing eyes of

snapper, salmon, perch.

Lake Michigan, where scaly whitefish

weave their way to Passover tables,

landing under redhot horseradish

as ovals of gefilte fish.

 

An acquired taste, introduced

to my palate in the war years

as I sat in my wooden high chair.

Fishy yet subtly sweet, static blob

topped by two carrot discs.

An acquired taste, unappetizing appetizer

the color of a newborn’s dimpled bottom.

 

So many voices at one table,

too mealy, too fishy,

too sweet, not sweet enough.

Does anyone want more? 

 

2  

Steering down the driveway,

car window open,

March April it’s spring,

pungent odor wafting across the lawn.

My widowed mother

stands in our kitchen,

as my daughters, twirling hair,

hug the butcher-block table.

 

Today’s lesson a curriculum of gefilte fish,

master class taught by Master Nana, in

gilt-threaded Daniel Green slippers

not unlike Aladdin’s. Wearing a Model Coat,

(flowered print, snaps from collar to hem),

she leans on the orange Formica counter.

She’d lugged the Oster grinder

from her kitchen thirty-five miles away.

What, she implores,

you still don’t have a grinder?

 

Lake Michigan wasn’t too cold this year,

the whities abundant, swimming swimming,

unaware of their destiny in the readied pot,

salted water rolling, steaming

the ceiling, splashing the stovetop.

 

Karen and Kate watch fish tubules

emerging from holes

in the grinder’s face, look look,

Nana’s making worms come out!

I tell them to write that down, draw a picture. 

Onions enter the funnel,

out the front into the green bowl.

 

Mix mix    throw in eggs    a few, three? 

She needs no measurements, whatever it takes.

Matzoh meal    a pinch of salt    pepper    sugar.

 

She shapes the ovals, easing them

into the blistering liquid seasoned

with carrots, celery, stock

concocted from bones, heads,

did you get that on paper, girls?

Simmer simmer, Nana says,

tasting the liquid with

seven little mouthsounds,

puh    puh    puh    puh    puh    puh    puh,

fish kisses planted on the soupspoon.

 

Remember this, girls, seven tiny tastes in a row,

get it right get it right, only Nana knows how to make gefilte fish.

 

Today our house will reek,

embracing us with the

blessed scent of whitefish

all the way from Lake Michigan.

Write it down write it down

so we can remember.

 

3  

Twenty-five, thirty years,

crayons crowd a table

hugged by busy grandchildren.

Passover, ovals from a jar

lying on lettuce beds.

 

When we gather in the dining room,

on Gefilte Fish Day, the youngest

in a plastic high chair wrinkling

her beauteous nose at

her fleshy portion,

we talk about the day

Nana taught Gefilte Fish School

while they wrote it down.

From Sugar and Sand (Full Court Press).

Used with the author’s permission.