One downside of growing up Jewish is that you never meet an angel or a church mouse
I have met angels, although they were in the guise of Bodhisattvas, and there are a surprising number if you look carefully enough.
As to church mice, I do have to wonder why they are symbolic, for they have vast homes, direct access to God, or the Bishop or synod, and if they aren’t tapping into the collection plate, they aren’t real mice, and as for starving, do they keep the communion supplies in a safe, for if not, the mice are certainly never go hungry.
In our family Murphy was a god, and his law was the eleventh commandment. I often wanted to ask at what moment my childhood ended. Had to be before my twelfth birthday, before the day on which I went from greeter at one of my father’s business parties in our oversized family room, to bartender, with no increase in pay. But I did develop a taste for Southern Comfort, so that was something of benefit. Once I did talk mom into letting me take the terror kids for an ice cream while she carried on her endless quest to replace the one small plate from her Royal Worcester china, never mind that she’d only once used eight place-settings which marked her personal best. But if you had twelve of every other piece, you could hardly have only eleven small plates. She did, I was told years later, finally give up the quest when, reaching for what she thought was the plate of her desires, she knocked over a Wedgewood platter, three large Belleek Vases and a Royal Daulton soup tureen. I had two sons, never saw the need to go to china shops, and the terror kids never married or had families.
A solitary lentil wrapped in its sauce mantle, having escaped the fork for the duration of the meal, stares up at me, perhaps defiantly my wife suspects it is merely bored at having been moved around so. I stare back at it in what I hope is my most threatening look as the waiter hovers by the bar watching us both, waiting for my fork to come to rest on the plate, the universal sign his tip is then immediately impending. our stares go on several minutes (until my wife finishes her meal) and I shrug, say to the lentil “I’m in a compassionate mood, I let you live!” And place my fork down. The waiter swoops in and carries both plate and pardoned legume to the dishwasher in the kitchen.
I used to think that the key to a great crepe was all in the wrist. That was before my wrist was fused by a doctor who explained that no motion was better than endless pain where motion ceased to practically matter. Now I realize that the forearm is capable of so much more that that for which it is given credit, that the elbow is a joint underappreciated, and that when the crepe slides off the pan and onto the plate, the forearm can take a silent bow, giving a wink to the crepe pan for its nominal contribution to the effort lying on the plate.