My Dad on Extremists

February, 2008

Fanatics, extremists and uncompromising bigots scare my family. “We live amongst other people,” my dad always says. “If you want to play by your own rules, move to Siberia!” Sure, we’ll do our best to make everyone feel welcome, but two groups that baffle our clan are religious extremists and vegans. My dad finds these people as logically grounded as my brother’s insistence on hanging Rasta prayer beads from the rear-view mirror of his car. This is the same man who might barter away his soul for the betterment of the Boston Red Sox, so logic isn’t his bag either. But he claims lack of logical grounding is what turns him off from maniacally devout followers of Jesus, Moses, Mohammed or wheat and vegetables. These folks have entered his domain in the past, but chances are they aren’t itching to return.

Take Jeremy, my parents’ friends’ child who became an Orthodox Jew after his bar mitzvah. He didn’t become just any Orthodox Jew either. He memorized the Torah. He moved to Jerusalem to study with the “elders.” His parents visited him there and the “elders” told them that Jeremy was taking this religion stuff “too seriously.” The head Rabbis of Jerusalem thought he should “relax.” “To each his own,” my dad might say about Jeremy’s decision to go Mega-Jew, feigning universal tolerance. But when Jeremy’s religious dogmas affect the way my pops runs the family house, no such courtesies are extended.

Jeremy was once left alone in our house when our parents went to dinner one Friday night. Looking for food, Jeremy opened the freezer, thus turning on a light, a strict faux pas during Shabbat. Like Joshua stopping the sun in the battle for Gibeon, Jeremy used a ruler to prop open the freezer to ensure that he not turn off that light, another forbidden action on the sabbath. When my dad returned, his specialty frozen foods were spoiled and kitchen floor was covered in melted water. The language that followed was also not permissible for a shomer Shabbos. After his requisite outburst, my dad sat at the kitchen table, freezer door still ajar with a look on his face that can only be described as utter confusion.

My father was again confused when Daniel, a different friend’s son, decided to be a vegan at age 12. Daniel had another thing going against him in my father’s rulebook: he was a child. Anyone under the age of 18 must prove his ability in sound judgment or my father will take his opinion with as much respect as that of our hamster. Of course this age can be extended after multiple infractions (see my Rastafarian brother).

My ever-courteous father (at least at the beginning of the night) prepared a separate, meatless meal for Daniel when his family visited our home: pasta with basil pesto sauce. It’s a simple but delicious recipe of basil, olive oil, garlic, pine nuts and, wait for it, parmesan cheese. After one bite, Daniel tasted the cheese. “What the hell is this?” he asked while wiping his tongue with a napkin. The smoke rose from my dad’s ears as my mother calmly apologized. “He’s a child!” my dad vented to me in the kitchen. “Get him a bagel.” “We only have egg bagels, Dad.”

My dad doesn’t understand the world’s extreme meat eaters either. Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse is a temple to all things meat. These folks serve up a steak tender enough to cut with a determined stare. But the people that work there, especially our waiter, are as nutty in their affinity for the stuff as Daniel is carnaphobic. “Have you folks dined at Ruth’s Chris before?” the waiter asked my family as we sat down to one of the most pretentiously hilarious restaurants in the country. “No this is our first time,” we answered. “Well let me tell you about the detailed process we use to prep and cook our succulent meats,” he declared with stern seriousness and passion. Was this guy serious? My family was already cracking up when he dove into his sermon about the history of the restaurant -- Ruth bought "Chris Steakhouse," get it? -- the 450 degree insulated ovens, the perfect pink insides of their juicy steaks and the mouthwatering marinate used to make a side of beef as tender as chocolate cake. Five minutes later, after our rehearsed waiter finished his monologue with flamboyant alliteration, we were literally crying, trying to hold back laughter. Guess what, buddy, nobody gives a shit about the 450 degree ovens, just bring out our dinner. My dad ordered his filet to be cooked medium. “The chef actually prefers that medium rare, sir,” our connoisseurious waiter informed him. “Uhh, okay,” he said in baffled agreement. The waiter sauntered away, perhaps to pay his respects to the Alter of the Bovine Gods in the back of every Ruth's Chris. “I’m spending $50 on a damn steak and I can’t even get it medium?” my dad asked. “I just don’t get some people.”