fish | Good Times with Jess

Another Passover is in the books. It was awhile ago now, but I started writing this awhile ago.

Thank you to PJ library for their kid friendly Haggadah. Every year we’re able to read a little bit more. And if it weren’t for the illustrations, I don’t know that we’d be able to read at all.

BB was a full-on participant this year, which felt extra special and RB was a full-on nuisance despite eating a not-kosher-for-Passover bowl of Frosted Flakes two minutes before the start of the seder.

RB was willing to pause her complaining to ask the Four Questions and bargain for money for the afikomen.

BB declared,

“Twenty dollars!”

I said,

“One dollar.”

“Fifteen dollars!”

“Two dollars.”

“Ten dollars!”

“Three dollars.”

At which point, without BB’s approval, RB shouted,

“DEAL!”

I paid ten dollars, but still felt proud of my bargaining skills.

This is the year I realized the love Captain and I have can be measured in gefilte fish.

I adore gefilte fish. I have adored gefilte fish from the minute I could eat solid food. I also adore Captain. The two of them side by side is an easy pairing for me.

Captain only met gefilte fish when he met me. Turns out he was not as enamored with the fish, but I never would’ve known.

Wikipedia says:

Gefilte fish (/ɡəˈfɪltə fɪʃ/; from Yiddish: געפֿילטע פֿיש, German: Gefüllter Fisch / Gefüllte Fische, lit. “stuffed fish”) is a dish made from a poached mixture of ground deboned fish, such as carp, whitefish, or pike. It is traditionally served as an appetizer by Ashkenazi Jewish households. Popular on Shabbat and Jewish holidays such as Passover, it may be consumed throughout the year.

Historically, gefilte fish was a stuffed whole fish consisting of minced-fish forcemeat stuffed inside the intact fish skin. By the 16th century, cooks had started omitting the labor-intensive stuffing step, and the seasoned fish was most commonly formed into patties similar to quenelles or fish balls.^[1]

Ten years ago, at our first seder together, Captain ate the whole gefilte fish topped with horseradish. One of my favorite combos!

I don’t remember his exact words, but something along the lines of,

“Not bad!”

Each year Captain continued to eat the whole gefilte fish. Then about five years ago, when we were no longer in the stage of ripping each other’s clothes off, Captain ate about half of his gefilte fish.

A few more years went by and he continued to eat at least half of his gefilte fish.

Then this year.

I was so busy slurping up every last bit of my ground-up fish that I wasn’t paying Captain the least bit of attention.

I glanced over. He had taken the smallest, most imperceptible, almost microscopic taste of his gefilte fish.

I looked at him,

“You really don’t like it.”

“No I don’t.”

In that moment all I cared about was being very happy to eat his gefilte fish.

Then days later it dawned on me, we have now reached a place in our marriage where there is ZERO need for him to prove his love for me by how much ground-up, mushed-back-together fish he is capable of eating.

For better or for worse, until death or the end of Passover, he’s sticking to matzo ball soup.

BB’s class fish is staring at me. We’re calling him Fishy-wishy. Formerly known at Flippy.

Back in September there was a class vote to name their two fish. BB had her heart set on Fishy-wishy. I don’t know if she’d spell it with a hyphen, but considering Fishy-wishy depends on me for food now, I’ll punctuate at will.

The two fish were named Flipper and Flippy. Flipper didn’t make it. Tough school year for anybody. Flippy did.

A group text went out to the pre-k families:

“Who wants Flippy for the summer?! We promise not to hold you accountable if the worst should happen.”

YES! We have no dog, no cat, no bunny, no chickens, some bugs (uncontained), some mice (very elusive), why not a fish?

And as always, the gloriousness of Captain working right next to the kitchen is that I can burst in unannounced anytime a text moves me.

“Read this! Should we take the fish?!”

“Do we know what’s involved with taking care of a goldfish? I’d figure that out first. Maybe call a pet store?”

Sigh. Of course he’d recommend research. Google is not promising. Looks like more effort than I’m interested in.

At pick-up I ask BB’s teacher,

“What’s involved with taking care of the goldfish?”

“Oh it’s not a goldfish! It’s a tiny little thing. I feed it and change the water a couple times a month.”

“I can do that!”

BB is not sold. She asks,

“What happens if he dies?”

“We’ll bury him in the backyard or flush him down the toilet.”

“I don’t want Flippy.”

Bad time for dead-fish jokes. I backpedal,

“He could die on anyone’s watch. We might as well enjoy him while we can.”

By the time Fishy-wishy comes home, BB is ready for him to sleep with her.

I insist that he needs to live next to the coffee maker. Things that are in the kitchen are more likely to get fed on a regular basis.

Before this I would’ve said a fish is the last pet I’m interested in. That may still be true, but faced with no pets and a limited two-month engagement, maybe shorter, Fishy-wishy was irresistible.

I may also be holding on to all things pre-k. Where’d baby BB go? She’s DESPERATE to be five. On the playground she informs a random kid,

“I’m four and three quarters, but I wear size five clothes.”

She “graduates” today and last day is tomorrow. Fishy-wishy, formerly known as Flippy, came home yesterday. BB says,

“If anyone from Fishy-wishy’s old life is around, we’ll call him Flippy.”

Last night, as I prep this morning’s coffee, Fishy-wishy stares at me. I stare at him. Is he happy? Does he mind being all alone? Is this small container humane treatment of a fish?

What is going on with me? I expected to be: Fish is alive? Good. Fish is dead? Move on.

I really REALLY didn’t expect to be consumed with personifying Fishy-wishy. But here he is, staring at me while I try to write and I can’t help but ponder his quality of life.

He gets to spend his summer at the beach, watching us eat his brethren, so maybe he’ll just be grateful to be alive. As long as that may last.