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own. “Can we do salmon, pretty please?“ I asked with pleading eyes. “For Acharon Shel Pesach it shouldn’t be an issue.” I was on a high. On Acharon Shel Pesach, I would finally get to enjoy the first course of the meal. Until then it was destined that I keep sharpening my brain with fresh chrein. The Sedarim were gorgeous. For a first-timer, my husband really led a beautiful Seder. Chol Hamoed passed in a blur of visits to grandparents, endless lines leading to the roller coasters, and lady finger crumbs escaping from sandwich bags. And before I had a chance to get used to the look of my silverplated kitchen, Acharon Shel Pesach was here. Along with preparing the matzah kneidlach, chremslach and a variety of gebrokts dishes, I feverishly dribbled fresh lemon juice over wide slabs of salmon. Never before was I craving salmon like this. “I’m happy for you,” my husband said, grinning as he observed me preparing the fish. My mouth watering, I slid the roaster into the oven. When it came to the meal, however, despite my joy at serving fresh salmon, I was suddenly overcome with an urge to be a very good wife. Mendy loves the falshe fish, I thought, looking at the slices of salmon sitting on the plates. Why not let him enjoy it one more day? After yom tov it will lose its luster, just like the Pesach brownies. I quickly unwrapped the remaining roll, neatly cut a few slices, and put one into every plate. It looked so real, so authentic. A slice of salmon and a slice of gefilte, side by side. Only, it was falshe fish. And no matter if you are Galician, Hungarian, Sephardi or Ashkenazi, fish and fleisch don’t go together. No matter how you plate it.

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The Monsey View

Issue 194  

The Monsey View