by Carl Reisman (Mahomet, IL)
Dedicated to my father, John Reisman, z”l, and Fox’s Deli, Rochester, N.Y.
We didn’t keep the Sabbath
but we kept going to Fox’s for smoked sable dusted with paprika,
Nova lox, golden white fish, slabs of marble halvah,
pastrami shaved onto butcher paper, hot corned beef, and bagels,
not those crappy frozen cardboard ones we had on Sunday mornings,
but the real ones, boiled, baked until they had a crust,
still warm from the oven,
bagged up, a baker’s dozen,
always told by the counter lady, honey, you got one more,
and my Dad picked another,
sesame, poppyseed or onion, never raisin.
My mother warned us not to forget the cream cheese.
We didn’t discuss the Talmud but we took
the number 73 and I was nearly trampled by a lady who wanted
the man behind the counter to get her
one of the Hebrew National salamis hanging from a hook.
I had to look past her varicose veins to see the spool of hot dogs,
kosher ones stuffed in lamb casings,
that we would broil until they split.
My father had to pick me up so that I could see the floating pickles in their barrels,
bright green, the smacking cool cloud of vinegar and dill
mixed in the steamy air with a front of
mustard, pepper, chicken fat, garlic, and salt.
My family never raised the Golem to save our neighborhood
but as the year 5729 passed into memory
my father kept up his weekly trips to Fox’ s for kugel with white raisins–
it was not as good as his mother’s and my mother wasn’t even in the running
in the kugel race–nor could they hold a candle to my Hungarian grandmother’s strudel,
filled with apples and nuts,
or more surprisingly, cabbage, soft, sweet, with caraway, pastry so thin
when she rolled it that you could see the table underneath,
at least, so he said, she died before I was born; Grandma
and her cooking had passed into legend,
and my father was always showing up at the deli, Fox’s,
or, really, any deli,
looking for the Promised Land, wanting again to feel chosen.
Carl Reisman was a professional cook and restaurant reviewer before settling down to work as an attorney in Champaign, Illinois helping out people who were injured on the job and growing vegetables in the office garden. He has published two volumes of poetry, Kettle and Home Geography, and has contributed to journals including Karamu, Legal Studies Forum, and Red Truck. His work is also included in the anthology, Lawyer Poets and the World We Call Law. In addition, his poetry has been taught, along with that of several other lawyer/judge poets, in a class at West Virginia University College of Law on the literary efforts of lawyers.
Author’s Note: This poem is dedicated to the memory of my father, John Reisman, who died from complications of Covid three days short of his 90th birthday. He was born of two Hungarian Jewish immigrants, the first child to survive (three siblings died), and grew up in a cold water apartment that was poor financially but rich in the traditional Jewish foods of my grandmother’s birth country. My father was raised practicing Orthodox Judaism, stopped practicing, tried Reform Judaism, but never really found a home in a temple after he left the one in Perth Amboy, NJ, where he was raised. Food was the most powerful connection he had to the soul of being Jewish, and the deli is where we went to try to find the source.