Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

(A few years ago, I wrote this "Gypsy" spoof honoring the New Year. I don't remember writing it, but then, I don't remember what day it is. What I do know is this. I think of kugel and break into song. Whether I'm making kugel, serving kugel, or most importantly, eating kugel, there's a song in my soul. And here's the evidence.)  

Have some kugel, Mr. Goldstone!

Have a napkin, have chop liver, have a chair.

Have some tzimmes, Mr. Goldstone!

Any tzimmes that I can spare I'll be glad to share!

Have a dish, have a fork, have gefilte, 

Don’t have pork.

Put your feet up. Feel at home.

Have some brisket, have some Triscuit.

Would you like to hear a poem? 
Put a kippah on your dome? 

Have some challah, Mr. Goldstone!

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Rest your tuches, Mr. Goldstone!

Here's a tallis for you!

Everybody give a cheer.

Abraham is sitting here.

Mr. Goldstone I love you!

Have a Goldstone, Mr. Kugel.

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Say gut yontif, Mr. Yom Tov.

Have a sweet year, have a few!

Blow the shofar, Mr. G!

Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

Mr. Goldstone, I love you!

(apologies to Jules Styne & Stephen Sondheim) 

Good Answer

This morning, on the occasion of our 41st wedding anniversary, I'm happy to report that I can still surprise longtime hubby. By now, you'd think I would've already asked him all the important questions. But today, a new one popped into my keppy. As I repositioned his early morning sweatshirt, draped ever-so-casually over his manly executive schlep bag, I asked:

"Honey, are you going to be wearing this sofa today?"

"Um..."

"Oh, sh*t. Did I just ask if you're going to be wearing a sofa?"

"You did."

"If this isn't early dementia, what is?"

"It's just your brain processing too much at the same time."

Let's face it. The man just gets me. For 41 years, I've been posing all kinds of questions. Nonsensical. Rhetorical. Multiple choice. And he always knows the best answer. 

After the sofa inquiry, I followed up with this: 

"Honey? Would you still marry me today?" 

"Yes, I would, over and over again." 

See what I mean?

The Way We Were

"Oh, Hubbell, remember that time we ate hot wings 

on the beach, and I dripped sauce all over 

my nice blouse?"

Well, it had to happen, I suppose. The Hot Wings Place on Van Nuys, the one that made me think, "Why would anyone want hot wings?" has closed. The only time I ever thought about hot wings was when I passed by the Hot Wings Place en route to Gelson’s, my personal homeland, more overpriced than ever before, and not making any apologies. How do I know the Hot Wings Place has closed? The boarded up windows were a giveaway. So many boarded up windows in my general vicinity. At this point, I feel sad when anything closes, even if I never went there. I'm feeling a little sentimental about The Way We Were, not just the movie, but P.C. (Pre-Covid.) I won't miss you, Hot Wings Place, but I liked knowing you were there. It probably didn't help that another Hot Wings Place just opened two minutes away. I won't go there either, but I'll be sad when it closes, a few months from now. Sometimes, change is a good thing. These days, I'm just looking for a little consistency, hot wings or otherwise.