4 | MARCH 30 • 2023
from the Executive Director
The Great Gefilte Fish Fiasco
M
y mom loved
Passover. It was her
holiday, and she
spent weeks preparing every-
thing from the menu to the ser-
vice. Most important to Mom,
however, was the
guest list.
Mine was the
house where all
the strays came
for holidays, and
everyone was
greeted and treat-
ed as family. This was true at
gatherings throughout the year,
but particularly during Passover
when our table grew exponen-
tially. My parents couldn’t bear
the thought of anyone being
alone for the holidays, so they
adhered very closely to the
tradition of B’ruchim Haba’im,
which loosely translates to “wel-
come to our congregation.
”
And what an eclectic congre-
gation it was. There was always
the usual family and friends
who joined us year after year.
But also included were friends
from school who couldn’t get
home for the holidays; my
parents’ work colleagues who
had no family in town; non-
Jews who loved to experience
the traditions of our irreverent
seder; the owner of my parents’
favorite local restaurant; and
even strangers off the street
(seriously, it happened once) —
the whole mishpachah, and then
some!
With such a wacky cast of
characters, our seders were
always joyous, if not very tra-
ditional, occasions. The word
seder means order, but the irony
is there was no order during
Passover at our house. Certainly,
we would start the evening
with the best of intentions. Dad
would welcome our guests,
Mom would light the candles
and then we would read from
the Maxwell House Haggadah.
But in no time at all — generally
during my annual rendition
of the Four Questions which,
as the youngest child of two
youngest children, I sang until I
was about 30 — the entire thing
would dissolve into uproarious
chaos. There was schmoozing,
singing, eating and a lot of
laughter at our festive table, but
not a whole lot of order.
Each year, it seemed, some-
thing memorably off the wall
happened that made it into the
archives of Raitt family lore.
One year, we spent the evening
searching for our dog who
snuck out of the front door that
was left open for Elijah. Another
year, my brother broke out in
hives after surreptitiously taking
a few sips of the Manischewitz.
But, of all the great Passover
stories, the one that stands out
most was the Great Gefilte Fish
Fiasco.
Like all Jewish families, the
true star of the seder was the
food, and there was no meal my
mom enjoyed preparing — or
my dad enjoyed eating — more.
My dad was a foodie before
being a foodie was a thing, so he
insisted on helping mom plan
the menu. It had to be just right.
From chopped liver to matzah
ball soup, brisket to turkey,
kosher kugel to potatoes of all
varieties, it was a veritable feast
we all looked forward to every
year.
One of Dad’s favorite parts of
the meal was homemade gefilte
fish. Those perfectly formed,
slightly sweet dumplings of deli-
ciousness were a staple at our
family seders when I was a small
child. That is, until I was about
10 years old, at which point
Aunt Rose (of blessed memory),
the author and executor of the
family’s recipe, passed away. For
the next five or six years, we
either went without or, heaven
forbid, ate our gefilte fish from
a jar. That is until dad took it
upon himself to replicate Aunt
Rose’s revered recipe.
Dad enlisted Mom’s assis-
tance, but this was his project,
and he jumped into it with a
zeal I had not seen since my
brother received his first Lego
set and decided to rebuild the
entire New York City skyline in
our basement. The excitement
in the house was palpable.
Mom and Dad woke up early
on Sunday morning ready to
conquer the kitchen. It was an
ambitious undertaking, involv-
ing several hundred dollars’
worth of pike and whitefish,
days of preparation, hours of
cooking time and a pot the size
of a small country. All seemed
to be going well. Hours later,
however, as I sat in my room, I
noticed a disconcerting burning
smell followed by a shout and
a loud clatter. In horror, I ran
downstairs to see my father
scraping his failed experiment
into the garbage can. It was
ruined.
Despondent, Dad was ready
to cancel Passover. Mom
wouldn’t let him, so he vowed
to have a terrible time. It was a
dark few days.
The night of our seder arrived
and, for the first time ever, it
began as a somber occasion,
with Dad sulking and Mom
wondering if she should have
canceled it after all. But then,
something amazing happened.
As we recounted the story, we
all began to laugh. And soon
enough, dad was laughing at
himself, too, and at the sheer
silliness of the whole thing.
Sitting there in our dining room,
surrounded by friends, family
and strangers alike, it became
clear — to all of us — that the
gefilte fish just didn’t matter.
What mattered was making
memorable moments with our
own special congregation. The
order was, in fact, in the chaos,
and it was beautiful.
The effects of the fiasco faded,
but the smell of burning fish
permeated the house for weeks.
Needless to say, the gefilte fish
served during Passover that
year, and all the years that fol-
lowed, came out of a jar.
Wishing you and yours a
wonderful Passover.
Marni Raitt
PURELY COMMENTARY
Mom proudly
shows off her
seder table.