glatt to be kosher

When Overboard and I moved into our new home, I agreed to live in a kosher household for the first time in my life. Now, we don't follow the ancient procedures to the letter of the law (pork and shellfish can cross the threshold, it just can't touch our dinnerware), but we do keep two sets of said dinnerware for milk n' meat. I'd love to say that I understand, or even comprehend, the full extent of what it means to be a kosher household, but I'm not fooling anyone.

At the grocery store this afternoon, I went to place some lovely Pepperidge Farm hotdog buns into our cart, but was rebuffed by Overboard. I looked at her and asked, "Oh, gorgeous love of my life, what is the problem?"

"Those aren't kosher," she replied with a touch of exasperation in her voice.
"Bread can be kosher?" I inquired, with true sincerity.
There was a deep sigh, an obvious roll of the eyes, and the following statement was uttered with much disdain: "Your Hebrew school totally failed you."

Now, with all due respect to the nice Jewish people who run Temple Sinai's youth education programs, she might be right. Of course, I also grew up in an ultra-reform household, where pork and shellfish weren't just delicious, they were sacred. Don't believe me? Just place a sizable lobster with healthy claws in front of my mother and hear her exclaim, "A four-pounder! Praise be to God!" Or something like that. Point is, she gets excited about such things, and so do I.

The trick to all of this is Mr. K. While I have agreed to live in a kosher home and raise him with said rules in place (whether Daddy fully understands them or not - you know, sort of like taxes or higher level math), I know a battle will loom one day when the lure of all-you-can-eat King Crab legs night, or a sizzling plate of Szechuan pork proves too much for him to bear.

Luckily, I do have a plan. As Kenny wrestles with his stomach and his conscience, Daddy will be forced to step in and devour the sacrilicious meal to help save his soul from a vengeful deity and an incensed mother. Because that's what fathers do - they help.

I leave you with this funny story from my first trip to Israel a few years back for Overboard's cousin's bar mitzvah.

As a special honor, Overboard and I were called up to the bima to recite a prayer before one of the Torah readings. In order to do so, the rabbi needed to know what our Hebrew names were. My lovely bride had hers in a flash, but I was stumped. I honestly had no idea what my full Hebrew name was, just a guess at the first part.

Overboard's cousin's father was absolutely incredulous and demanded of me, "Well, what did they call you in Hebrew school?"

"Greg!"