DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL
So much angst to being a Jew. Woe particularly unto those of us who have lived with it since tender youth. At the age of 16, I traveled from my parents’ home in idyllic San Francisco to attend Yeshiva University in foreboding New York City, 4,800 km away.
I had been warned about New York – thefts, muggings, gang attacks, dangerous neighborhoods, illegal weapons, pickpockets, even gratuitous murder. What a thrill for a yeshiva-bochur to live alone in New York!
I wasn’t really all alone. I had plenty of classmates and a campus surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. We were quickly trained that if you cared for your life, you would not walk down Audubon Street.
But, the angst of life in New York was outweighed by it being paradise for fressers. We judged the quality of any town solely by its abundance of kosher restaurants and pizza parlors. They were everywhere.
A friend and I heard that the sine qua non of kosher restaurants was Gluckstern’s. In fact, we were told that it was so terrific that there were two Gluckstern’s, one Downtown and one Uptown. Just as our longing for matzo ball soup had peaked, though, we heard murmurings that “Gluckstern’s wasn’t really kosher.” Our hearts sank. What should a frummeh yeshiva-bochur do?
We decided to take the issue to one of the rabbinical authorities at the Yeshiva. “Gluckstern’s?” he intoned. “Which Gluckstern’s? Uptown or Downtown? You know that there are two of them.”
“We know, we know.”
“Well, some say that both of them are kosher, and some say that both of them are treife. Some eat only at the Uptown one. Others eat only at the Downtown one.”
“Who’s the mashgi’ach?” we ask.
“I can’t tell you that,” the rabbi said. “I don’t want to embarrass anybody.”
“So where do you eat?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you,” he says dismissively. “I wouldn’t want to get you confused.”
Forty years have passed, and now Second Avenue, my favorite kosher deli, has re-opened under new management. I am salivating.
Kosher? How kosher? Who’s the mashgi’ach? Would you eat there?
Nu, what do you think? Do you think I’m going to ask?
October 23, 2007
October 18, 2007
"WHENCE COME REST AND JOY?"
Not too long ago, I had to have my pills taken away. Linda took them from me because of my increasing addiction to Lortab, after I had injured my shoulder. Now, my Oxycontin, prescribed for a broken elbow, will soon be taken from me. Dependent again.
At first, they were my medications. Then they became my friends. No hallucinations, no goofiness. But, one or two before bedtime to take the edge off, ease the aches and pains of a middle-aged man, make my sleep a little deeper and more restful.
Then, never thinking about the portent of addiction, I swore that “tonight would be the last,” only to gravitate again toward the bottle. “I’m sure that by tomorrow, I won’t need it again.” When Linda hid them, I simply played hide-and-seek. What about when they run out? “Not a problem,” I deluded myself. “I’ll just stop.” Only when the now-horrifying thought of asking my doc-kids to prescribe more crept into my head, did I my conscience clutch. But, it was not addiction, I reassured myself. No. Just conscience toward my kids and their profession. Then, more panic, more dread. Stopping became a necessity, not a virtue. The pills ran out.
Since I “wasn’t addicted,” I took no counsel. I would muster the strength and simply stop. I went to bed that night at my kids home. Within an hour, the sweats soaked four tee-shirts, chills, shaking, crying, contemplating the most horrific thoughts. I woke Scott. But, I “wasn’t addicted,” so he assumed that I was dehydrated. He drove me to the ER. No, I was not dehydrated, they said. A moment later, Scott winced. “You haven’t been taking narcotics?” he asked. “I dunno, maybe I have.”
“You are going through withdrawal.” Shivering, I could no longer escape the truth. Foolishly, I drove myself home to Greenville. All to the best, Linda was away at a conference. I thought the worst was over, so I laid down, slept fitfully for a couple of minutes, awoke, and went into contortions, tossing, screaming, directing garbled prayers and epithets toward God, Kabbalistic rabbis, anyone, vowing piety, pleading for forgiveness, cursing, then begging for life. Only when I cried out for Momma was my torment exorcized. Cradle me again. Wipe my eyes. Tell me you understand. Promise me that I am safe.
How, in search of calming ones pains, might one slip so easily into darkest torment? Momma, let me be at peace. Let it not hurt anymore. Return to me the innocent sleep and dreams of childhood. “Whence comes rest? Whence comes joy?” the refrain of an old Sabbath hymn. Addiction is not in the chemicals, but in the emptiness of the soul.
Months later, I find myself struggling with Oxycontin, despite my broken elbow being long healed. An addictive personality, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps in the short-run, it simply helps me feel more restful, softer, at ease. And the short-run is sometime all you can see when the long-run seems so evasive.
Why is simply counting my blessings, of which I have so many, less than enough? Ingrate! Whiner! Pathetic! Victim! Wallowing in unjustified self-pity! You don’t even know what real pain is! From what does the emptiness in ones soul come to hunger for the momentary, futile attempt to put the heart at rest? Will Torah, or the Rebbe, the Dalai Lama, et al, allay the torment of the soul that Oxycontin cannot?
Here I am, about to have another round of my pills taken from me. This time, I know something more about handling their post-partum effects. I’m “not addicted,” remember? But, I still do not know what un-wholeness within ones self makes the brown bottle so irresistible, and perhaps – even given therapy and Torah – I never will.
“Whence come rest and joy?”
Please, Momma, please . . .
Not too long ago, I had to have my pills taken away. Linda took them from me because of my increasing addiction to Lortab, after I had injured my shoulder. Now, my Oxycontin, prescribed for a broken elbow, will soon be taken from me. Dependent again.
At first, they were my medications. Then they became my friends. No hallucinations, no goofiness. But, one or two before bedtime to take the edge off, ease the aches and pains of a middle-aged man, make my sleep a little deeper and more restful.
Then, never thinking about the portent of addiction, I swore that “tonight would be the last,” only to gravitate again toward the bottle. “I’m sure that by tomorrow, I won’t need it again.” When Linda hid them, I simply played hide-and-seek. What about when they run out? “Not a problem,” I deluded myself. “I’ll just stop.” Only when the now-horrifying thought of asking my doc-kids to prescribe more crept into my head, did I my conscience clutch. But, it was not addiction, I reassured myself. No. Just conscience toward my kids and their profession. Then, more panic, more dread. Stopping became a necessity, not a virtue. The pills ran out.
Since I “wasn’t addicted,” I took no counsel. I would muster the strength and simply stop. I went to bed that night at my kids home. Within an hour, the sweats soaked four tee-shirts, chills, shaking, crying, contemplating the most horrific thoughts. I woke Scott. But, I “wasn’t addicted,” so he assumed that I was dehydrated. He drove me to the ER. No, I was not dehydrated, they said. A moment later, Scott winced. “You haven’t been taking narcotics?” he asked. “I dunno, maybe I have.”
“You are going through withdrawal.” Shivering, I could no longer escape the truth. Foolishly, I drove myself home to Greenville. All to the best, Linda was away at a conference. I thought the worst was over, so I laid down, slept fitfully for a couple of minutes, awoke, and went into contortions, tossing, screaming, directing garbled prayers and epithets toward God, Kabbalistic rabbis, anyone, vowing piety, pleading for forgiveness, cursing, then begging for life. Only when I cried out for Momma was my torment exorcized. Cradle me again. Wipe my eyes. Tell me you understand. Promise me that I am safe.
How, in search of calming ones pains, might one slip so easily into darkest torment? Momma, let me be at peace. Let it not hurt anymore. Return to me the innocent sleep and dreams of childhood. “Whence comes rest? Whence comes joy?” the refrain of an old Sabbath hymn. Addiction is not in the chemicals, but in the emptiness of the soul.
Months later, I find myself struggling with Oxycontin, despite my broken elbow being long healed. An addictive personality, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps in the short-run, it simply helps me feel more restful, softer, at ease. And the short-run is sometime all you can see when the long-run seems so evasive.
Why is simply counting my blessings, of which I have so many, less than enough? Ingrate! Whiner! Pathetic! Victim! Wallowing in unjustified self-pity! You don’t even know what real pain is! From what does the emptiness in ones soul come to hunger for the momentary, futile attempt to put the heart at rest? Will Torah, or the Rebbe, the Dalai Lama, et al, allay the torment of the soul that Oxycontin cannot?
Here I am, about to have another round of my pills taken from me. This time, I know something more about handling their post-partum effects. I’m “not addicted,” remember? But, I still do not know what un-wholeness within ones self makes the brown bottle so irresistible, and perhaps – even given therapy and Torah – I never will.
“Whence come rest and joy?”
Please, Momma, please . . .
October 16, 2007
THE KOSHER OENOPHILE'S COMING OF AGE
Talk to an orthodox – or even right-leaning conservative – coreligionist, and s/he will tell you that wine, too, must be kosher. And you think, even ask, “Where’s the cheeseburger? Where’s the pork?” Fact is that if you want to be “strictly strictly,” must pass through the hands only of orthodox Jews, from juicing the grapes to double-sealing the bottles (or heating the wine to 165-190°, I know, picky-picky). This all has to do with wine’s potential for idolatrous libation or promoting unnecessary conviviality between Jews and their gentile neighbors. We are all well aware of the conviviality sparked by a shared bottle of Manischewitz.
I know what those of an upscale kosher palate would say: “That’s all yesterday’s news.” You would be right, Every Upper West Side Metrodox and Jewish gastro-journalist celebrates that one can now procure kosher dry wine with a cork (!) in the bottle.
It is true. It is true. Chateau de Fesles Bonnezeaux, Chateau Fonbadet Pauillac, Chateau Giscours Margaux, Chateau Leoville Poyferre Saint Julien ($134.99), Chateau Patris Filius (Isn’t that two-thirds of the Holy Trinity?). All kosher. All to be swirled and swizzled at equally trendy-dox kosher establishments. Not only do they come bearing corks and un-sugar-encrusted bottlenecks, but tales of international awards, too. It is a prism through which we may view the coming of age of American Jewry.
Being part of that schizoid bridge-generation, I do, however, owe a love song to those goopy, syrupy wines that were so long synonymous with kosher. Those were the wines that had an indelible influence on our earliest infancy, when the mohel administered pre-circumcision anesthesia, gauze soaked not in Bonny Doon, but in Schapiro’s Extra-Heavy Malaga. Primal nursing instinct and Chateau Schapiro soothed our castration trauma then, and we have owed it a debt of gratitude ever since.
Fond memories of childhood include eating brisket and kishke at Siegel’s, under the Lake Street El tracks in Chicago, and Mr. Siegel furtively bringing over shot glasses of Mogen David to the men of the party, a lagniappe to his “preferred” customers. I also remember the evening when I joined my folks at Siegel’s, and Mr. Siegel included me among the “preferred.” Garrison Keillor could not have written a more nostalgic coming-of-age story.
“Are you sure it was Mogen David?” you ask me. Nah. Essentially, all old-time kosher wines were interchangeable: Manischewitz, Kedem, Lipschutz, Mogen David, Schapiro’s
Each had a little edge of its own identity, to be sure. Manischewitz was first with the fruity, soda-poppy varieties – peach, strawberry, mango – quite a buzz, and cheap, too. The old Mogen David label had that loopy little picture of the Seder table, prompting the winos of bygone days to ask for “Morgan Davis, you know, the one with the guys playing poker on the label.”
The warmest spot in my heart, though, is left for Schapiro’s. There was an honest, proud wine, no apologies, no secrets. You want sweet or extra-sweet? They boldly led with their “so thick you can almost cut it with a knife” tag-line. Norman Schapiro to this day boasts that Schapiro’s is “aged for over six months” as though it were a century-old Balsamico di Modena. The taproot Shapiro’s is the musty, musky subterranean labyrinth, the cellars of Schapiro’s, a full square block right underneath the schmootz of the Lower East Side. Yes, the operation has moved Upstate, but on a Sunday, you can still meet one of the Schapiro’s at the ancestral entrance on Essex Street, enjoy a free tasting tour, and walk and inhale, the catacombs for yourself. Amazing, is it not, that even as the Lower East Side gentrifies, the vestal grotto keeps bearing its luscious fruit?
Now, our Jewish palates are more finely attuned. Our noses are better sensitized to inhale the bouquet. We know, and own, the right crystal for each Bordeaux and Merlot. We debate how “chilled” chilled should be, with Talmudic acuity. We Jews have arrived, and remarkably, our yarmulkes are still clipped to our heads. We are deservedly proud, as we have lived to witness “synthesis” become reality.
Sorry, though. I also pine for the other days. We were not so smug, nor so self-satisfied, nor so damned sure of ourselves. But, one thing was for sure: When someone raised a thimbleful of Mogen David at Siegel’s and bellowed “L’chayim!” we all knew what to answer . . . and we meant it.
Talk to an orthodox – or even right-leaning conservative – coreligionist, and s/he will tell you that wine, too, must be kosher. And you think, even ask, “Where’s the cheeseburger? Where’s the pork?” Fact is that if you want to be “strictly strictly,” must pass through the hands only of orthodox Jews, from juicing the grapes to double-sealing the bottles (or heating the wine to 165-190°, I know, picky-picky). This all has to do with wine’s potential for idolatrous libation or promoting unnecessary conviviality between Jews and their gentile neighbors. We are all well aware of the conviviality sparked by a shared bottle of Manischewitz.
I know what those of an upscale kosher palate would say: “That’s all yesterday’s news.” You would be right, Every Upper West Side Metrodox and Jewish gastro-journalist celebrates that one can now procure kosher dry wine with a cork (!) in the bottle.
It is true. It is true. Chateau de Fesles Bonnezeaux, Chateau Fonbadet Pauillac, Chateau Giscours Margaux, Chateau Leoville Poyferre Saint Julien ($134.99), Chateau Patris Filius (Isn’t that two-thirds of the Holy Trinity?). All kosher. All to be swirled and swizzled at equally trendy-dox kosher establishments. Not only do they come bearing corks and un-sugar-encrusted bottlenecks, but tales of international awards, too. It is a prism through which we may view the coming of age of American Jewry.
Being part of that schizoid bridge-generation, I do, however, owe a love song to those goopy, syrupy wines that were so long synonymous with kosher. Those were the wines that had an indelible influence on our earliest infancy, when the mohel administered pre-circumcision anesthesia, gauze soaked not in Bonny Doon, but in Schapiro’s Extra-Heavy Malaga. Primal nursing instinct and Chateau Schapiro soothed our castration trauma then, and we have owed it a debt of gratitude ever since.
Fond memories of childhood include eating brisket and kishke at Siegel’s, under the Lake Street El tracks in Chicago, and Mr. Siegel furtively bringing over shot glasses of Mogen David to the men of the party, a lagniappe to his “preferred” customers. I also remember the evening when I joined my folks at Siegel’s, and Mr. Siegel included me among the “preferred.” Garrison Keillor could not have written a more nostalgic coming-of-age story.
“Are you sure it was Mogen David?” you ask me. Nah. Essentially, all old-time kosher wines were interchangeable: Manischewitz, Kedem, Lipschutz, Mogen David, Schapiro’s
Each had a little edge of its own identity, to be sure. Manischewitz was first with the fruity, soda-poppy varieties – peach, strawberry, mango – quite a buzz, and cheap, too. The old Mogen David label had that loopy little picture of the Seder table, prompting the winos of bygone days to ask for “Morgan Davis, you know, the one with the guys playing poker on the label.”
The warmest spot in my heart, though, is left for Schapiro’s. There was an honest, proud wine, no apologies, no secrets. You want sweet or extra-sweet? They boldly led with their “so thick you can almost cut it with a knife” tag-line. Norman Schapiro to this day boasts that Schapiro’s is “aged for over six months” as though it were a century-old Balsamico di Modena. The taproot Shapiro’s is the musty, musky subterranean labyrinth, the cellars of Schapiro’s, a full square block right underneath the schmootz of the Lower East Side. Yes, the operation has moved Upstate, but on a Sunday, you can still meet one of the Schapiro’s at the ancestral entrance on Essex Street, enjoy a free tasting tour, and walk and inhale, the catacombs for yourself. Amazing, is it not, that even as the Lower East Side gentrifies, the vestal grotto keeps bearing its luscious fruit?
Now, our Jewish palates are more finely attuned. Our noses are better sensitized to inhale the bouquet. We know, and own, the right crystal for each Bordeaux and Merlot. We debate how “chilled” chilled should be, with Talmudic acuity. We Jews have arrived, and remarkably, our yarmulkes are still clipped to our heads. We are deservedly proud, as we have lived to witness “synthesis” become reality.
Sorry, though. I also pine for the other days. We were not so smug, nor so self-satisfied, nor so damned sure of ourselves. But, one thing was for sure: When someone raised a thimbleful of Mogen David at Siegel’s and bellowed “L’chayim!” we all knew what to answer . . . and we meant it.
HAVE A COKE AND A HECHSHER
My former hometown of Atlanta holds two matters sacred: It was burned to the ground during the Civil War. And, it is the origin of Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola has had such tremendous impact to Atlanta that citizens refer generically to all varieties of soda pop as “Coke,” and that a huge museum is devoted to its wonders.
Naturally, Coca-Cola has its Jewish connections. What doesn’t?
Dr. Pemberton invented Coke as an elixir. Some elders claim that it contained a bit of cocaine, hence the name “Coke.” But, it was introduced as a beverage at Jacobs’ Pharmacy in Atlanta. Jacobs, as you might have surmised, was a pillar of the Jewish community.
The other Jewish connection is even more arcane. Coke created a mystique by claiming that it was made with a “secret formula” that was locked in a vault, and even Jacobs was not made privy to its contents.
When Coke went national in the 1930’s, most “frumeh Yidden,” were wary of its kashrut because of the “secret formula.” Rumor had it that the ingredient was treife glycerin.
What to do?
At that time, only one strictly orthodox Rabbi served Atlanta, Tobias Geffen. Rabbi Geffen was naturally bombarded with queries from all over the country about Coke.
But, there was a rub: Should Rabbi Geffen be told the secret formula? How could this Yiddish-speaking, Litivisher rov penetrate the goyische inner circle of the Coke hierarchy?
So the legend goes: Rabbi Geffen’s son, Louis, was an attorney. He had a colleague, Hirsch, who barely acknowledged that he was Jewish. Hirsch happened to be the counsel for Coca-Cola. Louis asked if he would approach them.
After Hirsch sensed Rabbi Geffen’s piety, he did indeed get the President of Coca Cola to personally open the vault, while Rabbi Geffen alone peeked at the formula. Ah, no glycerin, no treife. Shortly afterward, Rabbi Geffen published a responsum endorsing Coke as a kosher beverage. Oy, a simcha bei Yidden!
Meanwhile, American Jews luxuriate in Coca-Cola, smiling and belching with great gusto. How aptly does it describe us: a nation that is full of gas, water, sugar, and an enigmatic ingredient that no one will ever really understand.
My former hometown of Atlanta holds two matters sacred: It was burned to the ground during the Civil War. And, it is the origin of Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola has had such tremendous impact to Atlanta that citizens refer generically to all varieties of soda pop as “Coke,” and that a huge museum is devoted to its wonders.
Naturally, Coca-Cola has its Jewish connections. What doesn’t?
Dr. Pemberton invented Coke as an elixir. Some elders claim that it contained a bit of cocaine, hence the name “Coke.” But, it was introduced as a beverage at Jacobs’ Pharmacy in Atlanta. Jacobs, as you might have surmised, was a pillar of the Jewish community.
The other Jewish connection is even more arcane. Coke created a mystique by claiming that it was made with a “secret formula” that was locked in a vault, and even Jacobs was not made privy to its contents.
When Coke went national in the 1930’s, most “frumeh Yidden,” were wary of its kashrut because of the “secret formula.” Rumor had it that the ingredient was treife glycerin.
What to do?
At that time, only one strictly orthodox Rabbi served Atlanta, Tobias Geffen. Rabbi Geffen was naturally bombarded with queries from all over the country about Coke.
But, there was a rub: Should Rabbi Geffen be told the secret formula? How could this Yiddish-speaking, Litivisher rov penetrate the goyische inner circle of the Coke hierarchy?
So the legend goes: Rabbi Geffen’s son, Louis, was an attorney. He had a colleague, Hirsch, who barely acknowledged that he was Jewish. Hirsch happened to be the counsel for Coca-Cola. Louis asked if he would approach them.
After Hirsch sensed Rabbi Geffen’s piety, he did indeed get the President of Coca Cola to personally open the vault, while Rabbi Geffen alone peeked at the formula. Ah, no glycerin, no treife. Shortly afterward, Rabbi Geffen published a responsum endorsing Coke as a kosher beverage. Oy, a simcha bei Yidden!
Meanwhile, American Jews luxuriate in Coca-Cola, smiling and belching with great gusto. How aptly does it describe us: a nation that is full of gas, water, sugar, and an enigmatic ingredient that no one will ever really understand.
October 03, 2007
JEWS AND PIZZA -- A MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION
I have yet to comprehend the American Jew’s love affair with pizza. You can’t drive through a Jewish neighborhood without passing a dozen pizzerias, three or four of them strictly kosher. I have long wondered why Orthodox Jews routinely order fauz-treife vegetarian sausage on their kosher pizzas, the quintessence of chazerai.
I assume that our obsession with pizza originated in the Hillel sandwich that we eat at the night of the Seder. Think of all the kids who demand “matzo pizza” on Pesach, a flat of matzo schemered with tomato sauce and cheese, to forestall a week without the genuine stuff. Ah, but was pesto indigenous to the Sinai Peninsula?
In Atlanta, one of the world’s finest pizzerias, Mellow Mushroom, is located right at the heart of the Judengasse. The family and I know this, because we do indulge in questionably-kosher cheese and are a little lax about items baked in a blazing-hot oven. It’s no surprise that we bump into many of our “metro-kosher” friends there. But, sometimes I also catch a glimpse of someone “really Orthodox” sneaking out with a pie, albeit with tzitzis tucked in, and women with hair shoved under a baseball cap.
Once upon a time, I enjoyed genuinely kosher pizza in Detroit. So what made this pizza “genuinely” kosher? It was all in the toppings: crumbles of gefilte fish, potato kugel, matzo balls, falafel, even cholent. No embarrassment about Jewish ethnicity here. After all, God don’t make no junk. I have yet to see a pizza crowned with blobs of pareve pitcha, and aren’t we the better for it? Oh, you’ve never had pitcha? Just think of Jell-O extracted from a calf’s foot, studded with shards of garlic and hard-boiled egg. Nummy.
To what extent will a Jew go to eat pizza? When I was a rabbi in Charlotte, the schule was situated a block away from a pizzeria. Right about Yizkor-time on Yom Kippur, half the teenagers would flee the sanctuary and congregate at the pizzeria for a slice of lunch. Finally, I could no longer restrain myself and confronted the miscreants.
“Well, Rabbi,” one of them eventually responded, “at least we didn’t have the sausage. You’re not allowed to have milk with meat, right?”
I have yet to comprehend the American Jew’s love affair with pizza. You can’t drive through a Jewish neighborhood without passing a dozen pizzerias, three or four of them strictly kosher. I have long wondered why Orthodox Jews routinely order fauz-treife vegetarian sausage on their kosher pizzas, the quintessence of chazerai.
I assume that our obsession with pizza originated in the Hillel sandwich that we eat at the night of the Seder. Think of all the kids who demand “matzo pizza” on Pesach, a flat of matzo schemered with tomato sauce and cheese, to forestall a week without the genuine stuff. Ah, but was pesto indigenous to the Sinai Peninsula?
In Atlanta, one of the world’s finest pizzerias, Mellow Mushroom, is located right at the heart of the Judengasse. The family and I know this, because we do indulge in questionably-kosher cheese and are a little lax about items baked in a blazing-hot oven. It’s no surprise that we bump into many of our “metro-kosher” friends there. But, sometimes I also catch a glimpse of someone “really Orthodox” sneaking out with a pie, albeit with tzitzis tucked in, and women with hair shoved under a baseball cap.
Once upon a time, I enjoyed genuinely kosher pizza in Detroit. So what made this pizza “genuinely” kosher? It was all in the toppings: crumbles of gefilte fish, potato kugel, matzo balls, falafel, even cholent. No embarrassment about Jewish ethnicity here. After all, God don’t make no junk. I have yet to see a pizza crowned with blobs of pareve pitcha, and aren’t we the better for it? Oh, you’ve never had pitcha? Just think of Jell-O extracted from a calf’s foot, studded with shards of garlic and hard-boiled egg. Nummy.
To what extent will a Jew go to eat pizza? When I was a rabbi in Charlotte, the schule was situated a block away from a pizzeria. Right about Yizkor-time on Yom Kippur, half the teenagers would flee the sanctuary and congregate at the pizzeria for a slice of lunch. Finally, I could no longer restrain myself and confronted the miscreants.
“Well, Rabbi,” one of them eventually responded, “at least we didn’t have the sausage. You’re not allowed to have milk with meat, right?”
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