Hills Like White Danishes – A New Year’s Story

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A77 2013

Written by Rena Rossner. Rena is a first time Jewrotica writer.

Rated RSol liked women like he liked food, generous and plentiful. The women of his dreams had breasts like mounds of chopped liver, nipples taut and round like pimiento-stuffed olives. He liked women with thighs like turkey drumsticks and an ass like two perfectly round Rosh Hashana challahs. He was turned on by women with breath scented like herring, and a little schnapps. Unfortunately most of the women that fit this description were quite a bit older than he was.

For Sol, food and sex had a lot in common. Both activities required the use of one’s mouth. Both activities made him feel relaxed, sated, and gloriously happy. And so, when Sol met Rita, he knew he had come home. So what if she reminded him of his mother? Meryl Tannenbaum made the best gribenes in Brooklyn. Her matzah balls were the fluffiest. Her kugel was crisp and caramelized on top, buttery and supple on the inside. And nobody, I mean nobody, could beat her gefilte fish, which floated atop its jellied conserve like a cloud.

Every date that Sol and Rita went on was a cornucopia of desire and gluttonous indulgence. They ate their way through Brooklyn. Slurping noodles at ShangChai, demolishing Sushi boats at Estihana and lovingly feeding each other slices of corned beef at the Brisket House. Never had two Jews been so in love.

Sol read somewhere that at its core, true love meant the expectation and reception of pleasure, and on his dates with Rita he got both, in abundance. The first night he walked her home (from the taxi to her front door) and was invited upstairs, she pressed squares of Godiva between his lips before he’d even taken off his coat. One thing led to another, but the scent of fried onion that wafted up from between her breasts sealed the deal. Sol wanted to part her meaty thighs and seek the kernel he knew was planted there, inside the kreplach of her vagina.

Making love to Rita was like an all you can eat brunch. But it was more than just waffles and syrup, cheddar cheese omelettes, bagels and lox. In Rita’s flesh he could also taste dill pickles, fresh baked pumpernickel rolls and kasha knishes. He buried his senses in her hills like white danishes, her sour cream skin.

So when Rita asked Sol to join her for a New Year’s Eve Klezmer Burlesque show at the Brooklyn Bowl, he didn’t know what to say. Not only had Sol never celebrated New Year’s before, but he didn’t know how he felt about what he called, a “nudey” show.

New Year’s Eve in the Tannenbaum household was Rosh Hashana. And Meryl Tannenbaum’s brisket was all the intoxication he needed. That and a few shots of slivovitz, and Sol sailed into the Jewish New Year in a gravy-soaked mashed potato and tsimmes induced stupor. How could anyone possibly need any other kind of New Year?

“Rita, baby, I’ve never really celebrated New Year’s. Why don’t we just snuggle up in front of the TV and watch a good movie at your place, I’ll bring great nosh.”

“Solly, I really want to go…and you always bring great nosh,” he could hear the pout in her voice.

“I only have eyes for you, baby, you know that. Why should I look at the tchotchkes of anyone else?”

“I’ll put on a show for you when we get home…” she crooned.

Rita could be very persuasive. She worked in the marketing department of a publishing house in the City, where she put her appetite to good use on a daily basis. She specialized in cookbooks, the perfect field, where her appetite for books about food almost matched her hunger for sustenance itself.

Though Sol lived on his own in a small one bedroom flat, it was in a very respectable brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. His job as a telepharmacist enabled him to earn a very good living without leaving the comfort of his desk chair. What that really meant was, he didn’t get out much. Brooklyn was his kosher oyster, and it provided more than enough tasty fare for his yiddishe tastebuds. Sol was also an internet addict. Why leave your apartment when you can get something at the click of a button? Like porn. And groceries. Movies. Pharmaceutical products.

A klezmer burlesque show? On New Year’s Eve?? Which would require him to have something resembling a social life which did not involve food? Sol thought to himself, disapprovingly.

“Solly…I’m waiting…”

“I….I just don’t know.”

“Some of my publishing friends will be there. It would really mean a lot to me…”

Then suddenly changing her tactic, she said, “you know they have a great menu…”

“Like what?” Sol snapped to attention.

“Potato and Onion Knishes with Sour Cream and Deli Mustard, Whitefish with Rye Toasts, Capers and Dill…” Rita sang the menu like it was an opera aria.

Sol smiled despite himself.

“But it’s traif,” he huffed.

“They have items marked very clearly as vegetarian…”

Sol shut his eyes tight, grimaced, and forced out a yes that sounded more like a sigh. What was he going to do with this woman? He would just have to be sure not to tell his mother. He would never hear the end of it if he did. Guilt did not even begin to describe what he would suffer.

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