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dear gefilte

Meet Dear Gefilte, Kveller’s New Advice Column

dear gefilte

Dear Gefilte,

Who are you and why are you on my plate?

Sincerely,

Leery but Intrigued

Dear LBI,

Thank you so much for your honesty and your scrunched nose. I am a delicacy to some, a curiosity to most, and plenty of people won’t go near me. In this new column, I can also give you sage and salty advice. Or at least let you know that you’re not alone.

You can ask me about love, lust, loss, potty training, meditation, interfaith angst, what to bring to a bris, and how to live in uncertainty. There’s a handy email address, deargefilte@kveller.com, where you can reach me, and anonymity is encouraged.

So, who am I? Much like the gefilte, I am a lot of different fishy parts mushed and mashed together, but I’m scared to define who or what I am. Much like the gefilte, I know what it’s like to bare myself to the world with nothing on but a parsley tiara, feeling like a lump. Much like the gefilte, I turn a little grey when cooped up for too long, but I’ll sit on your shelf for as long as you want.

I know in order to trust me, you may want to know some more of my ingredients. So here are a few things about me that I’d never want you to know if we met face to face, but heck, Dear Gefilte is all about connection and vulnerability and it’s the Year of the Sheep and 5775 adds up to 24 which is how old I was when I had my first orgasm so let’s do this thing.

Fun facts about Dear Gefilte:

1. I tried to feed my rabbi a dog poop sandwich when I was in 10th grade

2. I still get scared of the dark and have debilitating germophobia

3. I believe we were put on this earth to love

4. No “ex” of mine has ever come back and said I was right about that

5. I’ve lost both my parents, most of my aunts and uncles, and a best friend (thanks, cancer)

6. I think there’s always a way to find a pocket of sky and hopefully breathe

7. I’m 41, have been in treatment for a heart attack, an eating disorder, and adult acne (unrelated to each other)

8. I don’t understand the term “escrow”

I bet we have something in common, right?

Seriously, you’ve never even had the urge to run with parsley on your head?

If the answer is truly no, then I’m here to awaken the part of you that used to want that. The part that’s been so caught up in saying things like, “Ew, a talking fish ball?” or, “No thanks, I’m only Jewish on Thursdays,” that you can’t hear me, or yourself, for that matter.

I’m here to whine and moan and kvetch to. I’m here to connect with every person who feels like a forsaken side dish. I’m here to name those fears and haunting questions that stick in your brain like stubborn lint. I won’t promise to have all the answers. But I will jump into the unknown with you.

Quite frankly, I’m writing this column for me just as much as you. I miss Dear Abby, Dear Sugar, and the Dearly Departed who used to tell me how to make latkes or get from point A to point B. Even though I didn’t always listen to the instructions, it was comforting to admit I was lost.

Now I know, we’re all lost. We’re all splashing and scrambling in this grand Sea of Confusion. And even if someone clips your fins, you gotta learn how to float.

I dare you to use me as your raft.

With love and schmaltz,

Your Gefilte

Have a question for Gefile? Send it to deargefilte@kveller.com! 

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