The Trouble with Sushi…

Friday nights are date nights. For us, with 3 kids under 6, during a pandemic, this means we order a giant platter of sushi and eat it in front of whatever show Netflix has been telling us to watch all week. Sometimes I eat a magic gummy when the kids are in the bath and it hits me at the perfect time, usually as I start sorting out our sushi platter. Yet, I can’t figure out if this helps with my sushi OCD or amplifies it. You see, sushi, though one of my favorite foods, is riddled with complications. First and foremost, of course, is the fact that I start feeling sad about its impending disappearance as soon as I pop that 1st salty, smushy morsel in my mouth. This is a problem I seem to have with food in general – the idea that this most wonderous experience of eating must come to an end often overshadows the simple joy of the eating itself. I think this is a very Jewish phenomenon – sort of like the breaking-of-the-glass at a wedding: lest we not forget the suffering! But with sushi the mourning is heightened since there is such a finite number of pieces. With each delicious bite, you are one step closer to losing it all. So, I find myself counting down as I eat, periodically glancing over at my husband’s plate to make sure he’ll still have pieces left to donate to my sushi fund when I am done…

And then there’s the matter of sushi-piece-preparation. Not only must I go in a certain order – never would I have 2 of the same kind in a row – but each piece deserves the perfect ratio of ginger and soy sauce, which means there is a rather stressful estimation that ensues to ensure each piece receives the right amount of flavor. In the end, I am so utterly exhausted by all the sushi-induced anxiety that I have no energy left for the bedroom portion of date night.