When the trees were burnt with color,

And the air was perfumed with Fall.

T'was the time for great celebrations,

And the beckoning of the Shofar's call.

My mother prepared the traditional meal,

The planning started weeks in advance.

The hunting and gathering of ingredients,

Was the traditional Jewish mother's war dance.

There was the "nice" single cut of point brisket,

Which every butcher was obliged to supply.

Many times in my home, the butcher was blamed,

If the meal went terribly awry.

No New Year's dinner would be sanctified,

Lacking the royal appetizer in its dish.

What a "shanda" to think any meal could begin,

Without the humble Gefilte Fish.

The grinding of fish and blending of spices,

Would have us all don our oxygen masks.

Each batch she'd produce came with a disclaimer,

"Making Gefilte is a thankless task!"

Each Fall brought the spawning Gefilte,

As she cooked for the holiday fressers.

Only leaving her post and her tasks in the kitchen,

To visit the almighty hairdresser's.

I have fond memories of the Days of Awe,

From my childhood so long ago.

The aromas, the sounds, the lessons I learned,

That my mother on me had bestowed.

But times have changed and as hard as I try,

Some things cannot be replicated.

Though I boast that my brisket is better than hers,

Her Gefilte can't be duplicated.

I don't have the time (nor the inclination,)

If the truth were really to be known.

To grind, and blend, and mold and boil,

A dish that will stink up my home.

So I buy my Gefilte and never once have I claimed,

That the dreaded Gefilte was mine.

It's crowned with sliced carrots, just like my mother's,

And anointed in a pool of fish brine.

This year a disaster of immeasurable proportions,

Occurred with a Gefilte Fish drought.

When I went to the deli and heard the cursed words,

"I'm sorry, but we're all sold out!" 

I started to sweat, my heart rate grew rapid,

My peach skin turned apartment wall beige.

I envisioned my guests armed with small forks,

Attacking me in a Gefilte Fish rage.

I broke the news to my family,

And they stared in utter disbelief.

Their jaws dropped in horror and their eyes slowly narrowed,

Like I was a condemned Gefilte Fish thief.

The day of reckoning soon came upon us,

Preparations went off without a snag.

The soup was like wine, the matzoh balls were firm,

And my "nice" cut of brisket had swag.

A deafening silence befell the group,

As soon as the soup course was done.

An air of solemnity filled the room,

When the fish course should have begun.

I moved quickly to serve the main course,

Which surely would earn me parole.

All the food was served on fine china,

But for the tzimmes, I was missing a bowl!

I scrambled and searched for a container,

To prevent an unfortunate blunder.

I'd use a dog's bowl (if I indeed had a dog),

So this meal would not go asunder.

My daughter, whose opinion I dearly respect,

Said with the subtlety of a kidney stone blaster.

"The Gefilte Fish fiasco has now tightened its grip,

And has morphed into the Tzimmes Disaster."

Despite all the trials and tribulations,

Dinner passed with nary a hitch.

My wish to you all is to have a sweet year,

Filled with love and Gefilte Fish!