There was once a time when I didn’t like gefilte fish, and after watching a handful of my editors and coworkers try it — many for the first time — I remember why.
To many a young Jewish kid, it was, “no mom. You can’t make me eat that.” Why would anyone want to eat a molded slab of slimy, patty-like fish on a holiday where he or she already couldn’t eat bread (and, as I would later learn, beer?) I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.
And then, as I grew up, something changed. I found myself looking forward to the small, plate of fish served before the matzoh ball soup course. I wanted gefilte fish. I craved it.
Most of my co-workers aren’t Jewish, and that’s okay, because it gives me fun opportunities like this one; a time where I can share a family tradition, and watch them squirm at something I, too, squirmed at from my seat at the seder table. (Props to those who liked it. Horse radish does make it more tolerable.)
I’m proud of anyone who tries something new, especially when that “new” thing looks like a hunk of wet, shiny meatloaf that smells like fish stuffed into a jar.
Luckily, there is still some left in the work fridge.