Within my personal vernacular, “schmaltz” is primarily reserved for music of a highly sentimental or conventional character. However, the word has another, less poetic but no less evocative meaning.
Schmaltz (also spelled schmalz or shmalz) is rendered (clarified) chicken or goose fat. It is an integral part of traditional Ashkenazi Jewish cuisine, where it has been used for centuries in a wide array of dishes, such as chicken soup, latkes, matzah brei, chopped liver, matzah balls, fried chicken, and many others, as a cooking fat, spread, or flavor enhancer.
Though I am not a cook, I cannot help but indulge in a bit of fanciful drooling when considering the culinary definition. The mere thought of a richly flavored chicken soup or a rye bread sandwich with chopped liver renders me momentarily mute. There is, however, a further dimension to the etymology of “schmaltz” that I find no less persuasive—its origins in the Jewish communities of northern, western, and central Europe. Schmaltz was an economical replacement for olive oil, which was often unavailable in these regions. The significance of olive oil is never lost on me. I adore it. Lately, I have taken a liking to avocado oil, but the truth remains: oil, in almost any form, is one of my great culinary pleasures.
Returning to my original thread—the sentimental realm of music—my first introduction to it as a child came through my mother’s careful use of our enormous “Hi-Fi” stereo system. My parents had purchased this imposing machine in the late 1950s when we lived in Washington, D.C. It housed a 33 rpm record player, which my mother used to fill our home with the sounds of popular classical pieces, American Standards, and nearly anything by Roger Williams. My sister and I never dared to touch the device; it remained firmly under the dominion of our parents—primarily my mother.
In the late afternoons, as the day edged toward dinner, my mother would play her records, often becoming transfixed by the sound. She would nod softly to the tempo, sometimes pretending to sing along, her gaze distant, lost in memory or reverie. It was only a short time later that I encountered the piano for myself. At a friend’s house, in a quiet corner of their library, I discovered that I could play by ear. The first melodies I found under my fingers were those I had overheard from my parents’ Hi-Fi.
Ironically, this instinctive familiarity with the piano was my undoing. Though I took lessons for several years, I ultimately abandoned formal study in favor of playing and composing on my own. I never truly learned to read music. The rigid fidelity of notes on a page frustrated me, especially when other interpretations seemed to suggest themselves naturally. However, this freedom came at a cost—my playing became repetitive. And, unmistakably, schmaltzy.
One of my lingering regrets is having entirely given up the piano. When we downsized from our house to an apartment, my beloved Steinway salon grand—a beautiful instrument with a 5’8″ harp—had to go. I tried to replace it with an electronic piano (a sample of my playing is attached below), but it was never a satisfying substitute for the resonance of hammers on strings. The final insult came when I fell off my tricycle and broke my left fourth finger. It never healed properly, and when the cosmetic surgeon hesitantly suggested a possible correction—adding, with a touch of professional detachment, “at your age”—I decided against it. And so, I have inherited a convenient excuse for leaving my musical past behind.
Despite this unfortunate end to my own playing, schmaltzy music remains an enduring part of my life. Thanks to a subscription to Apple Music, I have limitless access to music of every variety. Our SiriusXM subscription in the car provides further variety, and with the addition of my Bose QuietComfort 700 headphones, my musical needs are fully met. Schmaltz, for all its sentimental excess, speaks to me.
On a fresh, sunny day, with the car windows open, the salty breeze blowing through sea pines and palmetto ferns, a bit of schmaltz is all I need to revive beloved memories. And in the quiet of an afternoon, seated comfortably with nothing but the sound of the breeze and birds for company, schmaltzy music remains a quiet, familiar comfort.
On a fresh, sunny day, with the car windows open, the salty breeze blowing through sea pines and palmetto ferns, a bit of schmaltz is all I need to revive beloved memories. And in the quiet of an afternoon, seated comfortably with nothing but the sound of the breeze and birds for company, schmaltzy music remains a quiet, familiar comfort.