Randi Kreiss: A holiday homily: the family that ate its pets

Thus it came to pass, in the Land of Brooklyn, that Morris Brownstein knew Anna Brownstein, his second cousin, and they begat Hilda, Murray, Pearl and Zelda. Pearl, third in the family order, was my mother, and the only one who seemed to have entirely escaped the questionable legacy of having parents who were also blood relatives.

In the warm bosom of my mother’s nuclear family, accent on nuclear, Passover was a sacred time. Sacred not in a religious way, but in a culinary way. Grandma Annie and Grandpa Morris spared no effort in bringing to their four children an authentic holiday experience.

Perhaps the most cherished Brownstein family tradition was dining on homemade gefilte fish for the holiday.

Let me digress. Gefilte fish (from the Yiddish word for “stuffed”) is an acquired taste. A cement-colored composite of various scaled fish, such as carp and pike and whitefish, mixed with ground vegetables and matzo meal, it tastes like a fishy matzo ball. People eat it cold, with mouth-scorching horseradish to kill the taste.

When I say it is an acquired taste, I mean you had to be there at the beginning. Let’s see, it’s 5785 on the Hebrew calendar, so if you started eating gefilte fish two or three thousand years ago, you probably look forward to having it on the Seder table this year. You can’t just munch gefilte with no prior experience.

For her gefilte fish, Grandma Annie believed in going to the source, so she would buy a large, live carp and keep it in the bathtub for a week or two until it was time to ease it from its comfortable aquatic home into a grinder.

This was fish farming in its most primitive form. The business possibilities were not lost on young Murray, who was blessed with an entrepreneurial spirit. When he was 19, he considered buying up tens of thousands of bathtubs to raise carp. Unfortunately, at the time all his funds were tied up in a machine that made shoes out of sweet potatoes, and he didn’t want to spread himself too thin.

Anyway, keeping the carp in the tub wasn’t without consequences for the Family Brownstein. First, since the carp was in the tub for some time, and there was only one bathtub, well, draw your own conclusions.

The second consequence of growing their own, so to speak, was that my mother, the most tenderhearted of the lot, immediately bonded with the carp. She had always longed for a kitten or a puppy, but her parents weren’t about to indulge her, so once a year she had what you might call a transitory experience in nurturing an animal. Granted, a carp isn’t much of a pet, but young Pearl had little else to call her own.

This was not what you would call a psychologically enlightened family. Since “Sesame Street” had not yet been created, Grandma would entertain her kids by taking them to the Canarsie slaughterhouse, where they would watch the chickens being killed. You can see why they didn’t worry much about young Pearl playing with the carp in the tub.

When the day came, a few days before Passover, Grandma was the designated executioner. This was an interesting division of labor, since Grandpa Morris displayed distinct homicidal potential, having once chased a woman around a butcher shop with a knife after she insulted President Roosevelt. He was also enlisted in a civilian patrol, looking for submarines in Brooklyn, when he fell into a sidewalk hole and wasn’t found for days. But that’s another story.

Anyway, Grandma Annie, ignoring all pleas for clemency for the fish, would drain the tub and dispatch the carp with her cleaver. A day later, they set a beautiful table, and after a few prayers, devoured the fish, which lived on in its new incarnation — homemade gefilte fish swimming in its own aspic.

For dessert, Grandma made what came to be known as the Cake of Affliction, a 12-egg, foot-high sponge cake that, year after year, stuck to the pan, fell like a pancake instead of rising like a soufflé and broke our hearts.

Times pass, and so do people. Rituals change. This Passover, my husband is the only one at the table who will eat gefilte fish. The Cake of Affliction isn’t on the menu. At today’s egg prices, the family sponge cake has become a high-risk investment.

Copyright © 2025 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.