It was the moment we'd all been waiting for — or more accurately, slightly dreading: time to consume the fish heads. My mom picked them up from the fishmonger that morning, and they'd sat in a plastic, ice-filled bag on the counter, my siblings and I giving it a wide berth. Now, gleaming, silver-scaled and freshly cooked, they were being carried out on an intricate platter. With gaping mouths and glassy eyes, the fish heads took center place on our Rosh Hashanah table. "Dig in," said my dad.
As a kid, I couldn't quite get behind the practice of eating fish heads on Rosh Hashanah. I was awed and alarmed, unable to look away from the fish's glassy eyeballs, loath to take a bite. Usually, I'd take just a tiny forkful to fulfill my obligations.
