Twas the night before Christmas and all through house not a creature was stirring except the Chinese delivery guy.
I’m a terrible Jew. I haven’t been to synagogue since 1998 and I make a point of eating shell fish on Yom Kippur, the most holy of holy days.
So what? I’m a Jew when it counts. I go home on Christmas, sleep late, sit in a car for with my parents and older brother for 45 minutes to travel to the movie theater in Westchester and then go out for Chinese.
This year we all watched Slumdog Millionaire.
After the trailer for Revolutionary Road, my grandfather turned around to my brother and me and gruffly said, “Boy, that looks like my marriage.” The whole theater giggled.
After the movie, which was deemed universally very good, but not excellent by my family, we argued over dinner. Last year’s Chinese restaurant was a disaster. My aunt wanted to go to the Kosher delicatessen, my brother wanted sushi. I stick firmly to tradition, and demanded lo mein.
We ended up at a different Chinese restaurant, and spent most of the dinner discussing the tea, which was too hot for my mother.
On the ride home, in the cold, cold dark of the winter, I leaned my head against the window and felt small again. My mother spoke quietly to my father, who was absorbed in the ballgame on the radio. My brother was silent. I put my headphones on and peered out into the black white snowfall and watched Westchester go by.