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Gefilte Fish

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I heard part of a program on NPR today.. Someone mentioned gefilte fish. Two words from my childhood.


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.

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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.

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Kevin is (writing about yourself in the third person (illeism) is a trip) an artist/writer/carpenter and frustrated songwriter living in Johnson City, Texas. His latest frustrating songwriting attempt is titled, "I Touched the Hand That Touched (more...)
 

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