The Jewish High Holy Days, Jewish Rush Week as a goyische friend once called them, are bearing down fast upon us like a Peterbilt hurtling toward a raccoon, so I wasn't a bit surprised when the phone rang last night and it was Uncle Slappy looking to finalize his plans to come up and stay with me during the Ten Days of Awe.
"Schmuck," he said when I picked up the blower. "So, you've forgotten your Uncle Slappy is coming up for Rosh h'Shanah."
"Oh, hi Uncle Slappy. Of course we haven't forgotten. Your room is already made up."
"And some soup maybe you'll have in the fridge so a decent lunch I can have while Mr. Big Schott toils in the fleshpots."
"You want soup, Uncle Slappy, soup you shall have. Nice chicken noodle soup. Some mushroom and barley. Some pea soup. Maybe even chicken with kreplach if they have it."
"It shouldn't be too much to ask, a kreplach once in a while," Uncle Slappy said fairly purring over the thought of a meat-filled dumpling. "In all of ferstunkeneh Florida, a kreplach you can't find. de Soto they said couldn't find the fountain of youth here. A kreplach neither."
"I'll do the best I can. By the way, Uncle Slappy, when are the holidays this year?"
"Just like they are every other year, the Jewish Holidays are either early or late."
With that the old man hung up the phone and, I suppose, started packing.