My Grandfather loved to talk about gefilte fish. He liked to eat it. It looks like decomposing, hairy perch in a jar -- at least that's how I remember it looking to me as a child. I wondered where the land of gefilte was. It's not in Ireland. That's where my Grandfather was from, well, his blood was.
I think gefilte is Yiddish for "stuffed." It was brought to America by Ashkenazi Jews.
Gefilte fish was my first introduction to a tribal people. I would go to Alfred's Deli in Houston with him in the early sixties. It was a magical place for me. Full of exotic people and exotic food. He would eat Chicken matzo soup or gefilte fish with onions and pickles. I would always have the most amazing, beautiful corned beef on the planet. The staggering heap of pickled beef between rye bread slathered with a combination of mayonnaise, mustard and purple horseradish was transcendent -- transcendent of the milky summer humidity and raging concrete outside. The most particular, memorable part of the experience was one of the owners sitting at a tall dais like cutting board, slicing the corned beef, chattering in a mysterious, comfortable accent, putting the thinly sliced corned beef in succulent, mountainous heaps. I loved that place.
I loved when my Grandfather would tease me with gefilte fish. I naturally was very fond of grilled cheese and pop tarts. I would agree to eat some, however when it came out it was orangish yellow between white bread.
Today I read a piece about Trump's Campaign Manager's connection to an anti-semitic piece of journalism. Trump is a pig and a national horror. I'm sorry, I am congenitally political and very American. America is a very special place. Not because we are exceptional. Because a towheaded German/Irish kid with a crew cut full of butch wax could sit in a Jewish deli with his Irish Grandfather eating gefilte fish sixteen years after World War II and the Holocaust and be happy and safe.
Shame on all of you supporting Trump.