Treyf Tuesday

Rule Number One: You always eat what Grandpa gives you, even if it means you have to choke it down and stop for a palate-cleansing something after you leave.

It's not that my grandfather is a bad cook; on the contrary, he's very good. It's just that his taste runs more toward meat and shellfish and lard and mayonaise on top of it all. People who eat such things are usually impressed.

The problem is, he enjoys making lunch for us so much, I can't bear to cast a pall over it by telling him I don't eat something he's cooked. So I smile, and eat it as quickly as I can.

Today, he served me cioppino. It was leftover from Norma's birthday dinner, and there was only enough for one, so he very proudly dished me up a bowl while he had a sandwich.

If you're into shellfish, I'm sure it was excellent, although any meal beginning with the phrase "the extra bowl is a gut-bucket" should give anyone pause. It had clams, crap, scallops, wee little shrimp, halibut, and steelhead. With some tomatoes. (Are you noticing a trend?)

Most fish are kosher. Shellfish are decidedly not. It's probably a good thing I don't follow the rules very well, since Grandpa seems incapable of cooking a meal that even nods in that direction. More pertinent, I really dislike shellfish: I'm kosher by default in that regard (though perhaps in no other, since I do love a good cheeseburger).

But, dear readers, I ate the soup. Really, it wasn't half-bad: nice and brothy, and I could pretend the chunky bits were all normal fish ... until the second bowl.

There wasn't enough for two, but Grandpa wanted me to finish off what was in the pot. You know how it is, all the chunky bits settle to the bottom - instead of a nice tomato broth with a hint of fish, I suddenly had fish'n'shrimp'n'clamshell slurry, with a garnish of Gigantic Mutant Crab Claw.

I choked down about half of my second helping, trying to avoid the shrimp, and managed a pretty convincing "Oh, this is so rich, I don't think I can finish it off." (I wasn't breaking Rule One; I had already had one bowl, and complimented him on it several times. And I even pretty much meant it.)

Can't finish the soup, fine, fine, no problem, but you should at least eat the crab.

Gah! Crab, as we all know, are clearly some sort of creepy-crawly insect that spent too much time sunbathing on Three Mile Island. On a scale of One to Nasty, they are surpassed only by lobsters, which, as we all know, come from outer space for nefarious purposes not yet revealed.

But again, I'm a good granddaughter. I inexpertly wielded my crusher-thingie, and dutifully picked out the crabmeat and slurped it down. It wasn't terrible, I suppose; at least it didn't have that overwhelming fishy odor.

But, damn, my stomach has been in knots all afternoon. You have to make these sacrifices for the sake of family harmony, I suppose.