
Do Your Job
IT WAS LATE ON THE FIRST NIGHT of Corona Times Passover and my teenage son chewed on a piece of matzo. Mind you, we were not following dietary restrictions. We’d had Hawaiian pizza for dinner, during which I’d rehashed the flight from Egypt, but hours later we were bored and peckish and broke in to the box of Streit’s my wife, who is not Jewish, had been kind enough to score at the supermarket.
“Tastes like shit,” my son said, chewing.
“They didn’t have time to make real bread.”
“Who, the people at the matzo factory?”
“No, the ancient Jews. I told you that. Anyway, it doesn’t taste like