La pêche de résistance

Never Done: Photographed a fish on a mirror

Of all the Jewish food we couldn't get in the little Massachusetts apple town where I grew up, the only thing I really loved was whitefish chubs. I didn't like herring, I hated tongue, I thought kasha varnishkes were dry, and knishes too heavy. I thought whitefish salad was too mushy and lox was too slimy. When my grandfather would come to visit from Quincy, a city on the south shore of Boston Harbor, he would bring all of this, and I didn't care. I was just interested in the whitefish chubs.

I liked the way he pulled out the backbone, and folded the fish open on a plate. I liked the red wine vinegar he sprinkled on top. I liked the fish alone, and I liked it on a bagel and cream cheese. Whitefish chubs let me feel like part of the family.

Now, all these years later, my taste hasn't changed much; I've discovered that I like nova lox -- that it is not as slimy as the rest, but I will still pass on all the rest. (Except Dana's cousin Eric's grilled knishes, which are definitely the best knishes I've had.) But most of all, I still love whitefish chubs.

And they've gotten harder and harder to find. Over the summer, Josh and I wanted to bring some to Pamela and David, who live just down the road from where I grew up. We drove all over Brooklyn, including to the Brooklyn Terminal Market, where I had never before been. (When we got there, we discovered that the man who ran the fish market had recently passed away, and his space was being taken over by his good friend, the florist who owned the space next door.) We didn't find any chubs that day, and ended up just bringing bagels.

When we had the idea to make our eighth night menoyre out of a whitefish chub, we figured it would be easy enough to find one in Manhattan -- at Russ and Daughters or at any old deli. But that didn't prove to be the case, so Josh set about calling all the places he could think of, and was told that chubs are unavailable because the weather has been too warm around Lake Michigan, and so they can't get any from their suppliers. This turns out to be a near truth, the real truth being that whitefish chubs populations have been reduced because of invasive zebra mussels. (But why have zebra mussels invaded? Is it because of climate change?)

Anyhow, we ended up buying a huge, gorgeous whitefish, which made for a glorious spectacle, a resplendent golden candelabra, but ... let's just say it, it's no chub. It was also way too big to fit on any plate or platter we could find, so we went into the basement of the house we live in (at midnight) to see if there was anything there we could use. We weren't seeing anything, until suddenly, inspired, Josh suggested we put it on a mirror. (I think the point of this story has something to do with perseverance and adapting to new situations creatively as they arise.) So we carried a mirror up to our apartment, and we cleaned it with Windex, and I'm sure for the first time in my life, and potentially for the last, we placed the giant fish on the mirror. And you know that moment? That moment when you know you've done something terribly, terribly right? If you do, then you know what I am talking about. If you don't, then I don't think words can explain. And that is why I took a photograph.