In Which I Contemplate Telling My Child an Unconventional Lie to Get Out of Telling a Conventional One
If this is any less lucid than usual – like anybody’d notice the difference – blame it on the scotch. I used to be able to hold my liquor – was even a bit of a souse – but now after all the years of abstemiousness, it takes barely a drop o’ the craythur to get me all spinny. Here’s the culprit: Trader Joe’s has brought forth upon this continent their own brand of scotch – yes, Trader Joe’s Brand Scotch. If you look closely at the label, though, you find that what’s actually in the bottle is the Macallan 10-year-old. I don’t know precisely what the deal is – maybe Macallan has fobbed off to Trader Joe’s the leftover stock from their shuttered distillery downstream from the Craigellachie nuclear power plant – but they’re selling it for $19 a bottle and I’ve got to get me a crate.
I had this wee dram at a Hanukkah party at Dan the Chemist’s place. I was musing on the fact that Baby Dog’s first religion-specific party was a Jewish one, and it struck me that this suggests a solution to my misgivings about the big Ho Ho lie: we could just tell her we’re Jewish. Our surname pretty plainly indicates otherwise, but handled carefully she might not discover that until she’s a teenager.
There are flaws in the plan, I admit. Like not really knowing that much about Judaism. When we were at the Pirates' house last night and I mentioned we’d be going to two Hanukkah parties over the weekend, it suddenly occurred to me that I couldn’t even remember what Hanukkah was all about. I mentioned this, and Papa Pirate started explaining about the Macabees. “Oh yeah,” I said. “When I first heard of them when I was a kid, I assumed they were Scottish.” So maybe I’m not the best equipped to pull this particular bit of subterfuge off.
Then at the party we chatted with someone even more Judaically challenged than I. I found myself explaining to this woman what Hanukkah gelt was. Then she needed an explanation for the purpose and significance of the yarmulke (which admittedly was a little suspect in this instance because it was being worn by a dog). Then I had to tell her, no, it’s called a dreidel, not a yeidel, and astounded her by revealing there was a song that went with it. It’s all relative, I guess. I got to feel like a sophisticated man of the world, comparatively speaking. And I am forced to grudgingly admit that maybe the years spent with the Less Satisfactory Wife – whom I think I’ll now re-christen the Less Marvellous Spouse, for reasons that will be apparent to those who know her well – weren’t wasted entirely after all. At least I came out knowing what happens at a seder.
I had this wee dram at a Hanukkah party at Dan the Chemist’s place. I was musing on the fact that Baby Dog’s first religion-specific party was a Jewish one, and it struck me that this suggests a solution to my misgivings about the big Ho Ho lie: we could just tell her we’re Jewish. Our surname pretty plainly indicates otherwise, but handled carefully she might not discover that until she’s a teenager.
There are flaws in the plan, I admit. Like not really knowing that much about Judaism. When we were at the Pirates' house last night and I mentioned we’d be going to two Hanukkah parties over the weekend, it suddenly occurred to me that I couldn’t even remember what Hanukkah was all about. I mentioned this, and Papa Pirate started explaining about the Macabees. “Oh yeah,” I said. “When I first heard of them when I was a kid, I assumed they were Scottish.” So maybe I’m not the best equipped to pull this particular bit of subterfuge off.
Then at the party we chatted with someone even more Judaically challenged than I. I found myself explaining to this woman what Hanukkah gelt was. Then she needed an explanation for the purpose and significance of the yarmulke (which admittedly was a little suspect in this instance because it was being worn by a dog). Then I had to tell her, no, it’s called a dreidel, not a yeidel, and astounded her by revealing there was a song that went with it. It’s all relative, I guess. I got to feel like a sophisticated man of the world, comparatively speaking. And I am forced to grudgingly admit that maybe the years spent with the Less Satisfactory Wife – whom I think I’ll now re-christen the Less Marvellous Spouse, for reasons that will be apparent to those who know her well – weren’t wasted entirely after all. At least I came out knowing what happens at a seder.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 9:38 PM
2 Comments:
Here's some more Hannukah cheer:
http://home.nc.rr.com/keehyun/stuff/jew-heyya.html
Tragically, Trader Joes on the east coast doesn't sell alcohol in any of their stores. This is a tragedy, because as a whisky fan with jewish blood, it pains me to pass up such a bargain. I hope there is still some of this remarkable buy left by the time I get to the west in January so I can send some bottles to this dry and stodgy land.
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