Adam Levin - The Instructions

However my mother’s mascara might have made her appear at the dinner table, no one has ever argued over whether or not some dried chili peppers had been cooked into the nice kosher chicken. They had been. As for why they had been, there were two opposing claims.

My parents’: My mother had cooked chili peppers into the chicken in good faith, for the sake of better flavor.

My grandparents’: My mother had cooked chili peppers into the chicken in bad faith, for the sake of worse flavor.

And why would my grandparents make such a claim? Why would they believe that my mother would want to make the chicken taste bad? Opinions vary.

“Because she wasn’t Lebuvitcher,” my father says.

“Because they knew I was taking their son away,” says my mother, “and they thought I was out to destroy them.”

“If she didn’t ruin the chicken on purpose,” my grandmother said to my father from across the Shabbos table, “then why won’t she eat any?”

“She told you, already,” my father replied. “She doesn’t like to eat chicken.”

“What does that mean?” said my grandfather. “She’s a vegetarian? Are you a vegetarian, Tamar? And if you’re a vegetarian, are you the kind of vegetarian who eats fish?”

“I am not a vegetarian,” my mother said. “And I do eat chicken — you misunderstood. I don’t eat kosher chicken.”

“You’re sitting at our dinner table and telling us that not only do you eat traif, but you eat traif exclusively ?” said my grandmother. “You’re saying you refuse to eat that which isn’t traif? I have a hard time understanding.”

“I am not exclusive with traif,” my mother said, “I—”

“She’s not exclusive with traif!” said my father. “She’s eating from every other dish on the table. Every other dish on the table is as kosher as the chicken. I’m sorry, I interrupted you, Tamar—”

“It’s okay,” my mom said, “I—”

“Is it because she’s Ethiopian? Is it Ethiopian Jews, they don’t eat kosher chicken?” said my grandfather.

“If she doesn’t eat it,” said my grandmother, “why would she cook it? Why would she think she would know how to cook it and now the meat is ruined?”

“I think it’s delicious,” my father said.

“Oh, Judah, it is not delicious,” said my grandmother.

“I’m telling you I think it is,” my father said.

“It is not delicious, Judah, not remotely,” said my grandfather. “It is not remotely delicious and you should stop eating it, or else your stomach will tear apart.”

“Chili peppers!” said my grandmother. “Where did she even find them?” said my grandfather. “Why do we even have them?” he said. “They came with the spice rack,” my grandmother said, “I should throw them away? I suppose that I should now. I should throw them away. I’ll throw them away. I should have before, but that shouldn’t be so. That should not have been so. It never should have been so. Of all things, chili peppers! Peppers she puts! Peppers on chicken!” “On chicken!” said my grandfather. “On Shabbos!” “And for what?” “For what? For what he wonders. For what is: To hurt us!” “To hurt us!” “And why hurt us?” “Yes, why hurt us ?” “Because we were nice enough to—” “Because we were foolish enough to—”

“Enough!” my father said. “No one is trying to hurt you, and you are being unkind.”

“I am not trying take your son away from you,” my mother interjected.

“Excuse me?”

“I am saying please do not worry,” my mother said. “I am not trying to take Judah away from you.”

“ Please do not worry? I am not trying to take Judah away from you?” said my grandfather. “If not to take him away, then what are you trying to do with him?” said my grandfather. “And why should you tell us not to worry about a thing about which we have heretorfore expressed no worry if not precisely because we should worry; if not because when you say to us ‘Don’t worry,’ you are making a threat, a veiled threat, true, but a threat nonetheless and that threat is exactly what you say it isn’t, which is to say that it is nothing other than a threat to take Judah away from us and… and… I have lost my antecedent… I have lost my own antecedent, young lady, but I have not lost my mind, I have not lost my mind, not mine , and what it is that I mean to ask you is: Why else, when we have expressed no worry about Judah being taken away by you, would you say such a thing as you have said about not trying and don’t worry, if not to suggest that we should in fact worry and that you are trying? Why say it that way when it could be much more easily expressed if you just spoke the one word over and over very quickly so it sounded like: Worry! Worry! Worry!? Why not just be forthright and honest and say to us: Worry!?”

“And why aren’t you trying to take Judah away?” my grandmother said. “He’s not good enough to take away? You’re looking for someone smarter, maybe? Someone handsomer? As if you even could take him away! You should be so lucky. You should be so lucky, youshouldbesolucky.”

“She should be so lucky!” “Yes, she should be so lucky!”

“What is it you sound like?” my father said. “Robots,” my father said.

“Yes, she should be so lucky!” “Yes, she should be so lucky!” “No, she should not be so lucky, or else she would be very lucky, which is not a thing I would want, given what so much of her luck would mean for us!” “We would be un lucky, then! You will not be so lucky with our son!”

“A pair of shtetl robots clucking,” my father said.

“Should she be so luck y, we should be un lucky is the thrust of the matter.” “Luck for she is no luck for we is the thrust.” “That is the thrust.”

“I want you to be my wife,” my dad whispered to my mother.

“When?” my mother said.

“Her luck would be our tragedy is the real thrust.” “A tragic thrust for us, not her!” “No: not tragic for her, but luck y!” “Lucky for her , that thrust!”

“Next Saturday night,” my father said.

“The worst of luck is what we should be wishing her.”

“You are drunk with defiance,” my mother told my father.

“The worst of luck is what we are wishing her.”

“Then a year from next Saturday, so you know I’m sincere,” said my father. “In the meantime, live with me.”

“…the thrust!” “…should be so lucky!”

“I will,” my mother said. “And I will.”

And my parents rose from their chairs.

My father bowed and my mother curtsied.

My father set his right hand on my mother’s waist and my mother set her left hand on my father’s shoulder.

My father clasped her right hand with his left.

With her left my mother clasped his right one back.

And the dancing began.

At first they did a mid-tempo waltz: one step for every thrust clucked, two for every three lucky s. They dipped and spun away past the table.

The musicians, insulted, launched into a furious cha-cha.

And my parents furiously cha-cha-ed.

They cha-cha-ed in the living room, and they cha-cha-ed in the foyer, but no matter how far away from the stage they went, the clucking grew louder and faster. Before it could deafen them, they cha-cha-ed out the door.

On the stoop the night was quiet.

And in the quiet on the stoop they did a box-step.

And while they box-stepped in the night, they told stories.