How Jewish is he?

And because there is always something to laugh at, I give you this:

We recently found out that the valves my dad will be implanted with to replace his leaky ones were formerly owned by a pig. Or perhaps two pigs. The cardio-surgeon wasn’t clear on the specifics. (He also balked at my question of whether the pigs were male or female. For some reason the idea that my dad will soon be part sow makes me smile). You must understand that my father is the Jewishest man you could ever meet. His DNA is in the shape of a magen dovid. If it wasn’t against the religion to tattoo yourself, he would definitely have JEWBOY inked across his face. He can use the word Jew ten times per sentence and never tire of it. The man’s a Yiddeshe Pappa of the Yiddeshest kind. And he’s about to become semi-porcine.

Being a medical man, he wasn’t as shocked as I was to discover the close DNA link between our chubby pink friends and ourselves. But he’s still deeply disturbed by the idea that an animal his people shuns is soon to save his life. I jokingly ask him if he’s told my Rabbi brother that he’s going to have a Chazah heart. He reminds me that my brother tore out all the pages of his daughter's copy of Old McDonald’s Farm that had pigs on them. Best I don’t mention it, then.

So last week, I’m at the hospital and I get an attack of the voracious hungers that I’ve only ever experienced when pregnant. It’s a hunger that makes you understand how those footballers stranded in the Andes ate their goalkeeper’s leg (he may not have actually been the goalkeeper, but goalie is the crappest position on the team so I figure if anyone was going to be dinner it would be him). I head off to the dreadful hospital cafeteria and discover I’ve missed lunch hour. The only thing left over is a solitary veal schnitzel. I’m not a veal eater but I reason that it won’t push my blood sugar too high and my twins can do with the protein.

The first bite and I’m struck by how fatty and salty the meat is. I persevere. The second bite. There’s something not right with this veal. I press on to the third bite then examine the pinky insides. A sick feeling floods my previously pork-free body and I rush to the counter, stammering - is there p-pork in this?
That’s veal cordon bleu, love, replies the weather-beaten lunch lady
Veal, ham and cheese.

And suddenly it makes perfect sense. We’re in the hospital – they use the heart for valve replacement surgery and send the belly down to the canteen for veal cordon bleu. Greed has stolen my pig-ginity from me. I have just eaten from the same God loving pig who sacrificed her sorry pink life to save my dad’s. I’m an evil daughter. I’m a bad Jew.

Worst of all, I have a hankering for one more wafer-thin slice of Yummy. Fatty. Greasy. Pig.