Sigh ... Friday morning, true to form, smack in the middle of Manhattan, I managed an absolutely splendiferous faux pas, a feat I seem to repeat with depressing frequency.
Jen took us, via the underground trains, to visit Roberto at his Fifth Avenue architectural firm. We'd been promised a tour, and, as architecture and I have enjoyed a lifelong romance, this expedition was eagerly anticipated.
Trotting down well-used cement subway stairs in their Brooklyn neighborhood we popped through the turnstiles onto the train platform. I was impressed with its relative cleanliness; oh, the odd bit of paper fluttered around disconsolately, but graffiti and trash were nearly nonexistent. The silver trains, though somewhat worn, were well lighted, clean and frequent. A couple of subway stops and a short walk later we were in sunny Manhattan.
Entering an impressive lobby we were elevated to the fifth floor, where a delighted Roberto showed us intricate, miniature 3-D exhibits of his firm's completed or ongoing projects; splendid photos and drawings made for fascinating contemplation.
Huge windows overlooked a leafy park; in fact, from our aerie we could see trees growing everywhere in Manhattan.
We four lunched at a popular cafeteria-style restaurant around the corner, where choice meat cuts were served with stylishly presented salads. I chose a huge, thick, fire-grilled, succulent, marinated pork chop, downed it, then gnawed the bone. Joe watched, fascinated.
Thirty minutes later Roberto returned to work, and Jen took us to that lovely park, where a small craft fair was doing a brisk business.
But the greenery drew me. Amid enormous shade trees, lovely winding paths and benches warmed by sack-lunching New York executives, there was one curious thing. Cheerful Hassidic Jews, hatted, bearded and tidily dressed in black, with crisp white shirts, had set up a little wooden building on the dappled lawn, with a fresh, fragrant evergreen roof, to symbolize how the Jews lived in temporary dwellings during their 40 years of wandering in the desert. I'd never heard of the seven-day Sukkot holiday, and was naturally intrigued.
We were invited into the tiny sukkah; Jen and a rabbi exchanged a Yiddish blessing, and we were offered a bit of simple, symbolic nourishment. "Thanks very much." I chirped, "but I've just devoured a pork chop the size of Manhattan, and haven't even a millimeter of space." There was a startled pause, then he recovered, smiled graciously, and bade us goodbye. His reaction was puzzling, but I thanked him for his hospitality, and we left, with Jen murmuring something to him ... When she joined me her face was red, and she seemed to have trouble breathing, just for a minute, there. Huh.
Well away, red-Jen said, carefully, "Ah, I wish you had kept that giant pork chop to yourself, Mom ..." She gasped again, then exploded into laughter.
I stared; why on earth ... then BANG! It hit me. (I am always five minutes too late for this world ...) Mortified, I whacked my cheeks. Jews and pork are NOT compatible. HOW could I have forgotten that?! Easily. I'm me. I staggered to a bench, face aflame. "Let's go back and explain ..."
"No need," gasped Jen, still laughing. "He took absolutely no offense; you were simply stating a fact."
I moaned, "It couldn't be just a normal pork chop; it had to be the size of Manhattan! Why? Why?"
Jen retold the story that evening to disbelieving groans, and delighted laughter. I sighed; my latest faux pas would gleefully percolate through family gatherings for simply centuries.
WHY do I munch my own feet so consistently? Why? Why?
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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