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.

