By Karen Galatz
RENO, Nevada — I live in a quality lox-white-fish-sable forsaken community. Yes, of course, I blame my husband, who insisted we move, swearing mistakenly there was a good deli in our new town. Still, this lament is about another relationship disappointment — the one with my girlfriend who refused to become my mule, my lox mule!
Growing up, lox, bagels, whitefish, sable, and pickled herring were weekend staples — as reliably served up on our brunch table as the massive Sunday New York Times. We fressed till our bellies ached and we yakked about politics, theater, and the relatives till our jaws ached as well. It was caloric and familial belching bliss.
But times and dietary habits have changed. Waistlines have expanded; the price of smoked fish has skyrocketed; and my family … Well, it’s changed too. My grandmother is gone. My parents and two of my brothers as well. Also, my Catholic-reared husband’s idea of Sunday brunch is pancakes and bacon.
Plus, one morning, two decades into what I thought was a happy marriage, my husband made a shocking confession. He admitted, aside from the occasional “everything” bagel, he didn’t much like bagels. You could have hit me over the head with a day-old bialy. I just stood there. He could have confessed infidelity and I might have absorbed the betrayal easier. He tried to console me by saying that, like my father, he enjoyed pickled herring. That was no consolation. The thought of that culinary dish was always a stomach-turner for me. As a child, it made me turn my nose up at my “shtetl-y” father.
In short, nowadays, lox and bagels are no longer a regular morning in routine. Now it’s a special going out, going out-of-town treat.
Yet, lest you think my husband is a heartless heathen (i.e., gentile), please note, he often orders shipments of Russ & Daughters delights to soothe the savage beast that is me. It’s kind-hearted. It’s generous. In fact, it’s down-right extravagant. Pricy plus environmentally fraught. Shipped in a massive Styrofoam ice chest with dry ice. Plus, it’s loaded with extras we don’t really care about but help “pad” the tab. I mean, really, how many Russ & Daughters coffee mugs does one household need?
Still, periodic shipments of bialys, bagels, and such (as tasty as they are) are no substitutes for my once-upon-a-time weekly fix of family and smoked fish. So, in the language of the underground drug culture, I constantly “jones” for a fix of nostalgia and just-so, papery thin sliced nova and delicately filleted white fish. Thus, you can imagine my joy when I concocted a scheme to procure a regular supply of my fishy drugs of choice.
My plan? Foolproof! Ingenious! It was seemingly so perfect that I prematurely danced the hora solo in my living room. Yes, I was momentarily living in Lox Paradise.
The plan? It hinged on my girlfriend who each month travels from here (Reno, NV) to Los Angeles to visit her daughters and multiple grandchildren. She drives on these trips— this is an important detail. Surely, I reasoned reasonably, this friend shops for deli delights for brunch. Surely, it would be no trouble to fill an ice chest each trip with lox, whitefish, sable, and such for me. Surely, my friend would be my lox-y mule. It wouldn’t be out of her way. It wouldn’t be an imposition. It would be PERFECT.
Make that it WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT except for one teensy tiny detail. My girlfriend doesn’t go to the deli for her family. Some Yiddishe Momme she is! She doesn’t buy pastrami. She doesn’t buy corned beef. She doesn’t buy lox. You get the picture. She doesn’t do deli. On the rare occasion, she gets a yen, she too orders from Russ & Daughters. Well, thanks a lot, sister. Don’t be my lox mule!
Oh, yeah, sure, she kindly offered to make a special deli run for me, but that’s not the point. I want a reliable monthly mule. Someone I can impose upon without really imposing upon. But no, no, no.
It … she … broke my heart.
She broke it so bad that I poured all my thwarted dreams into a massive wallet-busting order to Russ & Daughters.
So, don’t call me next weekend. I won’t be able to answer. I’ll be a-munching.
I even ordered pickled herring for my husband, who I won’t be able to kiss for a week. Yuck, just the thought of that stinky herring makes me gag. You marry a good Catholic boy, and this is how he betrays you. Pickled herring. Of course, I did marry him straight out of the shtetl of Reno, NV. Serves me right. Oy, veh!
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You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.