Every morning, just before dawn, from two kitchen speakers, Frankie Yankovic and the Yanks loudly and with great oom pah pah plead for the resolution of a cold case that has been confounding authorities since 1950.
“Who stole the Kishka”
Dear God, Netflix, for the love of all humanity, it’s time to jump in.
I had been blissfully, marginally unaware of this particular crime until we wandered past the award-winning Squeezettes on Saturday morning during Appleton’s very cool Octoberfest.
“Hey!” my husband Vince shouted. “That’s Guy’s favorite song!”
He dashed over and, for only the second time in his entire life, held his cell phone aloft to record a song. Charmed, I took a picture. He chuckled as he prepared to send the clip to his college roommate, the lederhosen-loving litigator Guy Maras, who loves polkas almost as much as Vince does.
From then until now, “Who stole the Kishka?” has enjoyed a prominent spot on Vince’s peculiar morning play list. In deference to our long-suffering neighbors, I have been keeping the windows closed.
“Look at these lyrics!” he said yesterday.
I did and, frankly, I found them disturbing.
“Round, firm and fully-packed, it was hanging on the rack. Someone stole my kishka, when I turned my back.”
Kind of racy, dontcha think?
And then, for no reason at all, the disparaging comments about perfectly good meats and dumplings.
“You can take my shinka. Take my fine kielbasi. You can take my pierogi. But give me back my kishka.”
I mean, did he kiss his Babcia with that mouth?
So, here’s the challenge, Internet sleuths: Someone named Yaschel (AKA Yusef) has been a person of interest on this case since lyricist Walter Solek mentioned him 66 years ago.
Find him. Quickly.
This is the clip Vince recorded and sent to his friend Guy: