It's raining here on Cape Cod, a dull persistent rain, the likes of which ruins vacations, darkens moods and sends people everywhere to the nearest grocery store for some "steak-cut cheddar and strawberry meringue baked-not-fried potato chips."
My wife, Uncle Slappy and I had the honors of piling into the Simca and, to quote my wife "picking up one or two things" we forgot yesterday--though we somehow spent nearly $500.
In any event, while my ever-loving was perseverating over which grass-fed free range organic kosher halal left-handed chicken to buy, Uncle Slappy and I wandered freely in the store looking for odd products and, it must be admitted a bit of trouble.
We quickly found ourselves in aisle 97 of the massive store--a store which was likely built over the burial ground of millions of Massaposits, or Wapopoags, or even the more numerous Peqods.
Aisle 97, the sign said, incongruously and proudly contained "Hispanic and Kosher" foods. Uncle Slappy and I walked its 90-foot length and noticed way more black beans and freeze-dried chorizos than foods of the Semitic sort.
In short order, an old crooked man pushing a near empty basket limped down the aisle. He had a scowl on his face like that of a man who had just dented his new car giving his child driving lessons.
Uncle Slappy started it.
"You don't look happy," he said.
"I am looking for matzo meal," the old man said.
Uncle Slappy got excited--the thought of finding a member of the tribe up in Indian country made his blood run faster.
"You're making latkes?" Uncle Slappy said.
"No." Said the old-timer. "Potato pancakes."
Uncle Slappy and I exchanged glances and shook our heads as if we were at the funeral of a close friend who died too young.
Then he went out to wait in the car.
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