The Passover brisket disaster

Monday night I hosted my first-ever Passover seder in my own home. I’ve been bouncing around at various friends’ houses the last few years, and haven’t led a full seder in, well, I can’t remember how long. I always helped my mother cook and organize and do whatever, including leading the seders after my grandfather’s death, due to lack of interest by my brothers, my mother, or, come to think of it, the rest of the family. So I just bought a bunch of revised edition Goldberg haggadahs, planned the meal, and rediscovered just how much work a seder is, even when you’re only planning for eight people.

Mom came to town on Saturday. I had done most of the shopping, but we did a bit more on Sunday, then cooked the chicken soup and prepared as much as I could for the next day. Tiring. Big-time. But my dinner was going to be so easy—I had picked up three corned beefs when I was in New Jersey early in March. My mother and brother had gotten mixed up as to who was picking them up for me, so, since I had an extra five-pound corned beef, I figured that would be the seder dinner. Corned beef is so easy. You stick it in a pot and ignore it until it’s done.

Well, Monday comes along. I make the potato kugel, the salad and greens, the haroseth, prepare the seder table, do just about everything I needed to do, and finally, around 4 p.m., put the corned beef on to boil. Then I realize I need a can of crushed pineapple for the sweet potato pudding, so I run out to the store, asking Mom to keep an eye on the corned beef. I’m back in about fifteen minutes, she tells me the corned beef is boiling beautifully, I lift the lid to look, and say, “Why is it brown? Why is the corned beef brown? Why is it brown?” I quickly opened the trash can and checked the label.

It was a brisket. My brother bought me a five-pound brisket, which I had just set on the stove to boil. It was a rerun of the same thing that happened last year, when my other brother thought he was buying me a corned beef from my favorite kosher butcher in New Jersey, but he bought a first cut brisket instead. By the time I figured it out, that one was boiled long enough to essentially ruin it.

This time, however, I’d only boiled it a few minutes. So I made a frantic call to Sarah, who was not just the seder guest but who is the best cook I know, and said, “You have to help me save a brisket!” She told me she’d check her recipe book and pick up whatever was necessary to make the brisket. Meanwhile, I took one of the other corned beefs out of the freezer and put it on the pot to boil. It would take longer, and be tougher, but at least I’d have a seder meal.

Sarah dropped off the kids, went to the store, got the extra ingredients, prepared the brisket, and we put it on to roast at a low temperature for, well, the rest of the night. It turned out wonderfully, and my seder meal corned beef was pretty good too.

But I’m never letting my brothers buy me corned beefs again. I can’t take the hit on my blood pressure when I see it turn brown instead of red when I boil their “corned beef.”