Please, Pass the Gefilte Fish

It's that time again. The hard boiled eggs roll across their plate. The aroma of red horseradish fills the air. Boxes of matzah are ripped open, revealing giant crackers ready to be buttered. The chop liver is left to the side, an acquired taste for some, but a rich delicacy to others, and the matzah ball soup is nicely salted and delivered. But first, please pass the gefilte fish.

It's like a science experiment gone wrong. Most fish are easily recognized, and we all know that tuna comes in a can. Herring comes chopped or in sour cream. Lox are long, orange strips for bagels, if not mashed first into cream cheese. Gefilte fish comes in a jar with goop, slithering out across your plate, and looking like nothing more than a white piece of... But enough about that. It's more priceless trying to get someone not Jewish to eat it, and the look on their face is worth the attempt.

Last year, I decided to take my science experiment to work. When the lunch hour arrived, I took a piece of matzah and placed it on my plate. Then, I wandered over to the fridge and pulled out a brown lunch bag. I took my seat at the table with my coworkers, waiting patiently for them to start their lunch, and then I proceeded to withdraw the glass jar from the bag. I snapped open the lid and dropped two pieces of gefilte fish onto the matzah, making a nice splash with goop. Then, I closed the lid, placed the jar back inside its bag, and returned it to the fridge, but I grabbed the red horseradish from the shelf first before closing the door.

"What is that," one coworker asked as if the gefilte fish were about to crawl off the plate.

"Fish," I responded.

"That's not fish." The disgust was hardly concealed in another's tone of voice.

"No, it's fish. Gefilte fish."

"Why does it look like that?" The first coworker started to eat her food, focusing in on it as if it were the center of her universe. "Why does it smell?"

"It's fish." I began to cut it up with my fork, mixing it in with the goop and horseradish. "Fish smells."

"That's not fish." The second coworker now had her hand held to the side of her face, shielding her from the view.

"If you say so." I looked at the third woman, who slowly ate her tuna fish sandwich. "Want to try some?" The piece of sandwich that she just inhaled seemed to freeze in mid-swallowing. "It's not bad."

"No." She swallowed, hard. "No, thank you." She coughed slightly.

"It's for Passover." I said this as if to apologize for what I was doing. "I can't eat bread for a week."

"Oh," they said in unison.

"It's not bad." I inhaled the food before me, but they dared not look at me as I did so. "I'll take the rest home." This seemed to relieve the growing tension, and their eyes slowly rose from the table and met mine. "Let me get rid of this." Discarding the goopy plate with matzah bits seemed to remove their angst. "Lunch is over anyway." The half hour went by fast like it usually did, and I slid out of my chair, ready to say good-bye.

"Since you can't eat bread, what are you bringing in tomorrow?" The first coworker watched me step away. "Yogurt?"

"No. I hate yogurt." I turned and studied the three women still seated at the table. "Something else." I waited a beat. "Chopped liver." With that said, I quickly left while the three of them exchanged nervous looks.

Now, it is that time again. The countdown to April 18th has begun. The eggs are waiting to be boiled. The Matzah will be hidden and then found. The red and white horseradish will be bought along with the veggies and salad. The catering order has been placed, and the bread is ready to go on strike. The only thing that is missing is the gefilte fish, which will be coming soon to your local workplace.