It’s Still Gefilte Fish

I got funky this shabbos, inspired by a chowhound post, and coated my gefilte fish with Montreal steak seasoning. It came out of the oven smelling heavenly and looking nothing like any gefilte fish I had ever met.

The reviews online were raving. Hints of family members stealthily sneaking pieces of gefilte fish had me near delirium at the brilliance of this new dish.One review had this gefilte fish not even needing horseradish. No horseradish. On gefilte fish. A breathtaking thought.

So I hid it in the fridge looking forward to surprising my growing family (or just my husband since he’s the only one currently consuming food other than yogurt/fish sticks/gerber jars) with this work of culinary genius.

I sliced into the crusted loaf with anticipation, noting the promised crispy exterior and fluffy soft inside.

I plated it next to a delicate salad of caesered romaine.

I didn’t even put out the horseradish.

I licked my fingers from  the spices that clung to them when I put the slices out.

And then, the moment of truth.

The first forkful lifted with anticipation.

The slow, thoughtful chewing.

It was okay.

Good, even.

But really?

It was still just gefilte fish.


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