posted: March 1, 2002
There has been a very unpleasant little illness running rampant through my friends and acquaintances lately. Everyone seems to have had it. I'm not much of a "joiner" and so I figured to skip this particular party, but, at the last minute, the virus brigade threw a surprise mixer and ambushed me.
Now, I don't mind occasional surprise parties but, in this case, I'm reminded of a High School friend's birthday which resulted in his younger brother being catapulted across the living room by the birthday boy who took his sudden leap in the dark as an assault by burglars. I feel like the younger brother. Just doing my part to make everything pleasant when wham! I'm on my back across the room. (Or in my case, making a deep study of the porcelain.)
I never get the flu. Well, not since I was a little kid. Influenza and I seem to be on the outs, which is quite fine by me. I catch colds, strep throat, do myself stupid injuries, but the Flu? Never.
I always imagine the flu as an army of little viral soldiers with various nefarious duties in mind to be plied upon me, but my troops usually prevail. This time, unfortunately, the enemy was victorious in initial, strategic battles and I've been fighting a retreating war ever since. At last the tide has turned and I'm winning out. But I still feel like crap.
I imagine these little plastic army-men in little suits labelled "virus" and "anti-virus" charging up and down my blanket-covered form, performing little charges and retreats, pincer movements and various clever manouevers as they attempt to render me either sick as a cat or somewhat better. They have raised various entrenchments in places like my sinuses and are making money by betting on my Kleenex consumption. What little bores they are. I've never been overly fond of war movies. These guys are really annoying me.
I want to send the little anti-viral soldiers home to a well-deserved rest. Actually, I think I'll go take a nap, myself....
posted: March 22, 2002
Well, it's chicken soup time again, or will be soon. (Considering the way the weather has been recently, I could really go for some chicken soup....) This year it looks like my friends back home will be able to recycle the Easter eggs, since it appears Passover will end the week after Easter, for once.
I am not religious and am only an honorary yid (this title bestowed upon me at the age of 14 by Steven Gasner) but, for some reason, the Jewish celebration of the end of Passover has always tickled me (really, I think pigging out because you ducked the wrath of God is pretty appropriate). On Easter Sunday, Christians go to church and have boiled eggs and ham (or lamb if you're really perverse). After the Seder, Jews have chicken soup and kuegel. Personally, I've always preferred chicken over ham and there's something really delightfully weird about sweet noodle casserole for dessert, so I'm happy.
For some reason that had always escaped me, my dad was always the person to make the chicken broth for the dinner. Not just any chicken broth, mind you, but kosher chicken broth cooked in a kosher pot. Not being Jewish, we didn't have a kosher pot, so, every year would involve the negotiation of collecting the kosher chicken pot from Mrs. Kauffman.
One college year, I mentioned this to a friend of mine who was waiting impatiently for his girlfriend so that they could drive back home to help his mother with their own Passover cooking.
"Oh, yes," says he, "The kosher chicken pot. You understand about the pot, I'm sure."
"Umm... no. What about it?"
"Well, see, it's traditional for a Jewish family to assign this job to the highest-ranking honorary-yid they know. Because goy chicken broth always tastes better. But, you see, there is actually only one kosher chicken pot in the world."
"You're pulling my leg."
"Oh contraire! Never do my fingers leave my hand!"
"Uh-huh...."
"See, there's only one kosher chicken pot--the Platonic ideal of Kosher Chicken Pot--which is kept by Elija, and every year Elija takes the chicken pot and carries it all around the world, distributing uses of the Platonic Kosher Chicken Pot to appropriate little old Jewish ladies so that they can pass them on to the deserving Chicken-cooking goyim."
"Ummm... kind of like Santa Claus and the toys, right?"
"Yeah! See, that's why it's so hard to get a Kosher Chicken Pot; you have to wait until Elija has dropped a Usage off with the Blessed Contact and he has to do this all in one night, because you can't have the Platonic Ideal of Kosher Chicken Pot just wandering around loose in the world for very long. This could seriously warp reality."
"I think your reality is already seriously warped."
"That's not warpage; that's the California version of Jewish Angst."
"Okaaay.... So, about this pot: how does Elija get the pot all the way around the world in one night? I know he ain't got no reindeer."
"Nah.... He just uses the Pot. He gets in the Pot and flies it all the way around the world."
"I suppose he steers it with his staff, like Baba Yaga and her flying pestle, steering with the mortar."
"Exactly! See, you get it. You really are an honorary yid. You sure you're not really Jewish?"
"I could change my name...."
"Hmm... no. I guess we'll just have to get together in our secret cabal after dinner and vote you an Order of the Kosher Chicken."
"With matzoh-ball clusters?"
"Naturally."
"Cool...."
I never did get my Order of the Kosher Chicken, but I'd probably have had to keep it hidden, anyway....
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