“Do you want fish?” our hostess asked. I sat rigid, feeling over a dozen pairs of eyes on me. We were new in town, and new to being “in-town,” having just moved from Northern California to Northern N.J. (Think the frum version of “Beverly Hillbillies” meets “Legally Blond.”) At 17, I had previously encountered gefilte fish, but I didn’t understand that it was a common first course for Shabbos lunch. I thought our hostess was offering fish to me and myself only, and I panicked, wondering if I particularly looked like a fish eater or a vegetarian, and terrified that, yet again, something about me was screaming, “I’m different!” to the world.
After a few moments of thick stricken silence, our hostess finally said, “Sorry for asking,” and started bringing plates of gefilte fish to the table. Conversation returned to normal voice levels. I realized that I hadn’t been pegged as a fish eater after all; I was just acclimating, slowly acclimating, to frum life. Aren’t we all?