A CAFFEINATED MEETING OF THE IN-LAWS
I have never understood why people drink decaffeinated coffee. Maybe it’s because I personally think that any coffee – even the vaunted Starbuck’s – tastes and lingers in the throat like wet cigarettes. How I know the taste and texture of wet cigarettes is simply up to ones conjecture.
What then? The only real reason that justifies drinking coffee is the, nerve-chilling amphetamine buzz one gets from drinking the stuff that’s full of caffeine – Super-Sumatra-Kenyata-Double-Deep-Dark-Roasted-Kona-Brain-Buster.
This and its cousins are brews that are not to be taken lightly. Indeed, they should be saved for special occasions when hyperkinetic attitude adjustment is the order of the day. I had one such day nearly 12 years ago that I remember with an afterglow of yet-to-be-resolved caffeine overdose.
It was the day that I drove the 90 miles from Atlanta to Macon, Georgia, to meet my soon-to-be in-laws. I knew little of them, and what I knew was dire: No, Linda and I could not sleep in the same room. No, I was not welcome at the Thanksgiving table until the engagement was “official.” What did I really do for a living? Would you please explain it again? Do people actually make money doing that?
How to confront such a dire situation? Drink coffee, plenty of it. Start drinking it before breakfast. Then, with my toast and jelly. Then, as I hit the road. Then, rolling down the highway. Then, whenever I stopped for gas – many times, of course, for we all know what coffee does to ones bladder.
Too much. By the time I got to Macon, my ears buzzed, my eyes spun, my teeth and follicles tingled, my arms and legs shook. Worst, my mind raced. The already skeptical in-laws greeted me feebly from the top of the stairs. Uncontrollably, I hailed words like bullets from a machine gun . . .
“Hello-Mom-and-Dad-I-hope-you-don’t-mind-me-calling-you-Mom-and-Dad-because-I’m-so-in-love-with-your-daughter-and-I-promise-to-make-a-good-husband-for-her-even-if-you-don’t-know-what-I do-for-a-llving-and-we-sleep-in-the-same-bedroom-and-I-really-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-because-I-know-that-you’ll-love-me-when-you-really-get-to-know-me-and-I-know-I’ll-have-made-it-when-you-invite-me-to-Thanksgiving-dinner . . . “
The in-laws were astounded. “I hope he doesn’t always talk so fast.”
“Not after he’s taken a cold shower,” Linda explained. “He’s always that way when he has too much caffeine.”
“Too much caffeine?” her mother chafed. “And here I thought it was because he wanted us to love him.”
April 22, 2009
April 17, 2009
“IT FREAKS ME OUT”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
April 01, 2009
KONKLET AND HAM STEAK
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
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