I can’t make jello.
No, this is not a treatise on gel-like substances. I shan’t wax poetic on the relative attributes of p’tcha (gala, for those of you more chassidishly inclined), versus that stuff that appears on the bottom of the chicken pan by Tuesday. I shall, instead, venture into the metaphorical.
I can’t make jello.
I used to think it was genetic, but the last time my aunt threw a sheva berachos, she served perfect little personal jello servings, each the exact same size and shape.
The last time I made jello, I took it out of the fridge, flipped it over, and watched it go splat! all over the serving dish.
(In retrospect, perhaps I should have used real jello, as opposed to the box of Jewish jello that had been sitting in our Pesach cabinet since 1995. But I digress.)
Anyway, the last time I tried to make jello, the only thing I actually succeeded in making was a royal mess. I co
ncluded I have an issue with molds, specifically, fitting things into them.
(Aha!, you’re going. She’s reached the punchline!)
My aunt, the aforementioned balabusta, raised six daughters, and all attended the same high school. Each proceeded to leave school before twelfth grade, attend seminary for two years out of the country, and attain their GED somehow before going to Touro and becoming a physical therapist/speech therapist/occupational therapist/teacher. Each then proceeded to be neatly married off to a family with connections, either monetarily, or high up in the family tree. Except the last. The youngest daughter was the black sheep, choosing to graduate high school—gasp!—and attend a different seminary than her sisters had. I have no doubt, though, that my dear aunt will overcome this “setback” when pursuing a good match (and by “good,” I mean, “useful”) for my cousin. As I said, my aunt is very good at fitting jello into perfect molds. Except for that last little . . . “slip-up.” But I’m sure she’ll just cover it up with a decorative mint leaf or something, like “R---- is just so interested in a heimish education that she couldn’t give up her last year of high school. Dedicated, she is!”
I am a circular peg, refusing to be smashed into a square hole, despite attempts to hammer me in through conformity, accepted norms, and the general standard. I don’t do molds.
I can’t make jello.
And I don’t want to.
No, this is not a treatise on gel-like substances. I shan’t wax poetic on the relative attributes of p’tcha (gala, for those of you more chassidishly inclined), versus that stuff that appears on the bottom of the chicken pan by Tuesday. I shall, instead, venture into the metaphorical.
I can’t make jello.
I used to think it was genetic, but the last time my aunt threw a sheva berachos, she served perfect little personal jello servings, each the exact same size and shape.
The last time I made jello, I took it out of the fridge, flipped it over, and watched it go splat! all over the serving dish.
(In retrospect, perhaps I should have used real jello, as opposed to the box of Jewish jello that had been sitting in our Pesach cabinet since 1995. But I digress.)
Anyway, the last time I tried to make jello, the only thing I actually succeeded in making was a royal mess. I co
ncluded I have an issue with molds, specifically, fitting things into them. (Aha!, you’re going. She’s reached the punchline!)
My aunt, the aforementioned balabusta, raised six daughters, and all attended the same high school. Each proceeded to leave school before twelfth grade, attend seminary for two years out of the country, and attain their GED somehow before going to Touro and becoming a physical therapist/speech therapist/occupational therapist/teacher. Each then proceeded to be neatly married off to a family with connections, either monetarily, or high up in the family tree. Except the last. The youngest daughter was the black sheep, choosing to graduate high school—gasp!—and attend a different seminary than her sisters had. I have no doubt, though, that my dear aunt will overcome this “setback” when pursuing a good match (and by “good,” I mean, “useful”) for my cousin. As I said, my aunt is very good at fitting jello into perfect molds. Except for that last little . . . “slip-up.” But I’m sure she’ll just cover it up with a decorative mint leaf or something, like “R---- is just so interested in a heimish education that she couldn’t give up her last year of high school. Dedicated, she is!”
I am a circular peg, refusing to be smashed into a square hole, despite attempts to hammer me in through conformity, accepted norms, and the general standard. I don’t do molds.
I can’t make jello.
And I don’t want to.
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