A Not-So Nice Brisket

What's going on under there?

Last night, I gave myself such a fright. I dreamed I made the brisket for Rosh Hashanah wrong. It's not that easy to mess up a brisket, people. But in my dream, I messed up with the wine. As the world knows, the SJG Brisket involves Manischewitz and lots of it. Red Manischewitz. I pour the wine, I splash it on, generously, I douse in ketchup and Lipton's onion soup mix, I wrap it all in foil, stick it in the oven and forget about it for many hours. It's no fail, people. The only way you can eff up this simple recipe is if you forget to turn on the oven.

But I know you. We're close. You're too smart for that. You probably have post-its all over the house: "Don't be a shmeggege! Turn on the oven, fool!" I have the utmost confidence in your brisket-making abilities. Unless you do what I did in my dream.  Or maybe we should call it a nightmare. I took my brisket out of the oven, unwrapped the foil and it looked funny. It was a white brisket, cooked in white wine. Shanda! This was a brisket unworthy of your worst enemy: "Here, I made you an awful brisket, you crapshtinkah. Enjoy." But you wouldn't do that, would you? You're too nice to deliver such a misguided Rosh Hashanah brisket, even to someone you despise.

So, now we come to the meaning of it all. What does a white brisket symbolize, dream-wise? Is it a reminder not to tell little white lies I'll have to atone for during the High Holidays? As in, "That purple Mohawk is so you!" Or, "I love that you still have a tree stump on your front lawn. It's so rustic." Or, "I'm so glad you dropped by and asked me for a donation to your 'Send Us to Paris So We Can Eat Cheese' campaign. If I decide to cash out an Israeli bond for this noble cause, I'll let you know." Lies, people. Little white lies. They get us in such trouble. Yes, I think that's what my dream means. Either that, or it's telling me: "Don't make brisket this year, let your mother-in-law do it."