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eleventh commandment.”
    â€œThe eleventh?”
    â€œThe one that applies only to Jewish women.”
    â€œWhich one is that?”
    â€œCome on, Rachel, don’t act coy with me. This is the one they hide from the guys.”
    â€œHow’s it go?”
    â€œLike you don’t know.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œThou shalt not giveth head.”
    I laughed.
    â€œI’m serious. You ever read the laws of kashruth? You wouldn’t believe the things you can put in your mouth. Pickled herring, fried chicken fat, that grotesque mucus that comes with gefilte fish, chopped liver, boiled tongue, bone marrow, schmaltz—even certain insects, for chrissake! Bugs! You’re telling me this isn’t a wacko cult? What kind of religion says yes to cockroaches and no to cocks?”
    â€œIt also says no to lobsters.”
    â€œThe hell with lobsters. I can live without lobsters.”
    I gave him a look.
    â€œReally?”
    He paused. “Well, maybe not. Add them to the list. Ask him tonight. Ask him what kind of religion bans lobsters and blow jobs.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll save it for another night.”
    â€œWait.” He jabbed his finger at me. “Bacon, too. Lobsters, bacon, and blow jobs. Listen, I’m not asking for the answer to the riddle of human existence or for the secret to the afterlife, Rachel. All I’m asking for is why the only thing that ever gets blown in a Jewish home is a shofar.”

Chapter Four
    It’s my fault,” I said glumly.
    â€œYour fault?” my mother said. “Don’t talk ridiculous. What is it with these men? Your father, alev asholem, tried that same number on me before we got married. You know what I told him?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked, amused.
    â€œI looked him right in the eye,” she said, wagging the serving spoon as she reenacted the event, “and I warned him, ‘Seymour, if you’re looking for a girl who’ll do that crazy stuff with you, then you better keep looking because I’m not that kind of girl.’”
    I couldn’t help but smile as I imagined that scene. My poor father. He never knew what hit him. My mother is the most determined and exasperating woman I know. Life trained her well. She came to America from Lithuania at the age of three, having escaped with her mother and baby sister after the Nazis killed her father, the rest of his family, and whatever semblance of religious faith my mother might ever have had. Fate remained cruel. My mother—a woman who reveres books and learning—was forced to drop out of high school and go to work when her mother (after whom I’m named) was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. My grandmother Rachel died six months later, leaving her two daughters, Sarah and Becky, orphans at the ages of seventeen and fifteen. Two years later, my mother married a gentle, shy, devoutly Jewish bookkeeper ten years her senior named Seymour Gold. My sweet father was totally smitten by his beautiful, spirited wife and remained so until his death from a heart attack two years ago on the morning after Thanksgiving.
    â€œAnd you know what?” she continued. “Your father never brought it up again. Never.” She nodded with satisfaction, but then noticed an empty centimeter of space on my plate. “How about some more brisket, doll baby?”
    â€œOh, Mom, I’m stuffed.”
    â€œPotatoes?”
    â€œReally, Mom, I’m plotzing . It’s delicious, but I couldn’t eat another bite of anything.”
    â€œWait, I’ve got strudel.”
    I leaned back in my chair. “Then let’s take a break first. I’ll help you clean up the dinner dishes.”
    I washed, my mom dried.
    As I soaped one of the dinner plates, I said, “I still think it’s my fault.”
    â€œHow could it possibly be your fault?”
    â€œI might be able to connect with these traditions if I were a more spiritual