AT LEAST THE BARBECUE SAUCE IS PAREV

Ethical dilemma:  Despite my being a secular Jew, I can’t bring myself to eat pork.   Even turkey bacon is way too close.  Oh, all right, there was the accidental ham in my turkey sandwich that I wrote about, but what I’m now about to say happened long before that.  And only within the last year — I’m 66; I gave it a good run — have I decided I have no reason not to eat shellfish.  Lobster’s not bad; as Larry David would say, “It’s pret-ty pret-ty good” . . . as long as I don’t have to see the lobster itself. It looks like a big red dead bug. The part that’s scooped out and served to me on a plate looks like . . . um . . . food.  It’s traif, but somehow it’s not traif in the same way as pork.  Go understand THAT.  My mother never cooked (or ate) anything in either category, but shellfish was somehow secondary on her personal (and therefore my) “eeuuww” scale.  Enough background already; back to the dilemma.

This happened 22 years ago, and I’m not sorry I made this utterly rational decision. My Jewish husband Jay sat me down and said, "If I say 'please' really nicely, can I buy pork ribs, bring them home through the gate to the back yard, and barbecue them outside? I'll eat them on a paper plate, with a plastic fork. I’ll let the fire burn the barbecue rack clean."  My first reaction was “Noooooooooo!! It’s ugly and it smells AWFUL.  How can you insult and defile our house (okay, our back yard) like this?”  Jay asked me to give it some consideration. “Look, you drive on Shabbos.  Why is this any different?  You don’t even pretend to be observant except with pork.”   He had a point.   I thought and thought and thought and couldn't decide, so I did my usual flip-of-the-coin trick (this one deserved a half-dollar instead of a quarter) and it worked as usual; I see how it comes up, and then I know instantly — because it’s visceral — if the decision is right for me.   Am I relieved or disappointed that it came up "heads"?  Then I act on how I FEEL about my reaction to the outcome.  It's the best mind-maker-upper I've got.  I liked the answer; it was NO, he cannot have pork unless he goes to a restaurant, and if I go with him, he can sit at another table (just kidding; he orders traif at restaurants and I don’t get up and leave).  First, though, I called the rabbi and told him my problem.

RABBI:     How long have you been married?
MOLLIE:   22 years.
RABBI:     What have you been doing all those years if not developing the art of compromise?
MOLLIE:   Does that mean I should let him?
RABBI:     Ohhhh, no, you'll get no such advice from me; you have to make up your own mind

Well, that was easy to do after the concept of compromise was brought up. One marriage, two people, and one realization: Jay eats pork  . . . nu, how does that hurt ME?  It shouldn't, it never has, it won't, it doesn't; how could it?  We talked; he kissed me and drove straight to the grocery store.   Fast-forward 22 years:  He barbecues the ribs outside but is free to eat them in the kitchen, and he shows his gratitude and makes me feel generous and appreciated.  The leftovers are double-bagged in the refrigerator, and HE scours the plate and fork before putting them in the dishwasher.

What a rabbi, who coaxed me into making my own decision!  What a husband, who respected me enough to ask permission!  What a mother I had, who did such a number on me!  And what a sight, watching Jay eat those ribs.  Ughhh! Ecchhh!  Not to mention feh!!  But nobody said I had to look, and I’m a big girl; I can choose to keep my gag reflex to myself.  He’s happy, I’m happy FOR him, and the marriage goes into its 44th year.

What . . . you were expecting maybe a punch line?


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