Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny by Marlo Thomas

Author:Marlo Thomas
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Autobiography, Azizex666, Entertainment & Performing Arts
ISBN: 9781401323912
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 2010-09-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 28

Dinner at the Goldbergs

The Jews and the Lebanese have a lot in common. The food they eat is just about the same, their music sounds the same and they have the same noses. So I guess it’s no mystery why most people thought my dad was Jewish. And playing the cantor’s son in The Jazz Singer—singing the Hebraic hymns with such ease in his throaty Middle Eastern tone—cemented the impression.

When I was going out with Leonard Goldberg, we were visiting New York during Passover, so he invited me to Seder dinner at his family’s home in Brooklyn. I love Seders. We even had our own version of them at our house for Uncle Abe and Aunt Frances Lastfogel, since we were their adopted family. I love the ritual of the Four Questions—Why is this night different from all other nights? I love the songs, the prayers, the candles, hiding the matzoh and all of the food—everything but the gefilte fish. It’s a smelly, gooey lump, an acquired taste that I never acquired.

The day of the dinner, Lenny and his dad were picking up items for the evening meal when Lenny pulled his father aside.

“Please tell Mom not to push the gefilte fish on Marlo,” he said. “She doesn’t like it. She’s had it a few times, but she didn’t grow up with it like we did.”

Lenny’s father looked at him in disbelief.

“What do you mean she didn’t grow up with it? Danny Thomas isn’t Jewish?”

“No,” Lenny said. “They’re Catholic.”

Mr. Goldberg replied in a hushed tone. “Don’t tell your mother. It will ruin her evening.”

That night, Lenny hired a car and driver to take us out to Brooklyn, and on the way he told me about the conversation. I thought to myself, I have to make it up to his mother for not being a Jew. I’ll eat the damn gefilte fish.

The dinner table was covered with every imaginable food for the holiday. I happily devoured the brisket and potato pancakes—and then, with a deep breath, stuffed in the dreaded fish, smothered with hot horseradish, and washed it down with an enormous glass of water.

Suddenly, Lenny’s mother jumped up from the table, crying, and ran into the next room, slamming the door behind her. Her husband ran after her, but I could hear her through the wall.

“His children will come to my house wearing crosses!” she wailed.

It was a terrible moment. And I had already eaten the damn fish.

Lenny looked at me apologetically. Obviously, his father had tipped off his wife that I was a shiksa. Mrs. Goldberg came back to the table and tried to be gracious. But the elephant was in the room.

On the way home in the car, I vomited up the gefilte fish. (Who says I’m not a great date?) The next day, I called my mother and told her what happened.

“Good girl!” she said.

“Good girl what?!”I responded. “I vomited.”

“It’s the least you could have done for that poor woman.”

They have a club, these women.

...

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