BHIF: Knishes turn up the heat in Motown!
Why do Old Jewish Men eat so much fruit? Thermometers. Art corner. Madoff. Meats beat. Knishes in Motown. Shabbos comes to town. Chicken Show!
Welcome to BHIF for Friday May 2nd, 2024. Baruch Hashem (Thank God) It’s Friday is The Old Jewish Men weekly roundup where we get to all the crap that actually matters in the world. Obituary winners. Matchmaking. Market watch. Marketplace finds. Complaint of the week. Joke of the week. You get the picture.
News
This week we have a contribution from Jerry S. Norman, a 74 year CT resident and melon enthusiast.
Why do Old Jewish Men Eat so much Fruit?
Sharon, Connecticut - At this stage in life, I can’t eat most of what I love. Brisket gives me indigestion and desserts spike my glucose. Even a nice seeded rye makes my feet swell. But fruit? Fruit is my loophole. I eat it all day. You can’t say the same about chicken liver. Fruit is the one thing my doctor still lets me have — and believe me, I ask at every appointment. “Can I still have melon?” He nods. And I live to eat another honeydew cube.
Fruit is guilt free food in the same way that seltzer is guilt free beverage. No one can confirm whether or not seltzer can cause kidney stones. At a certain age we aspire to find shame-free things to eat and sip. Decaf coffee is another one. Just thinking out loud here… I could eat a whole bowl of cantaloupe and walk away feeling like I just made a responsible adult decision. Try saying that about a cinnamon swirl.
But the best part about fruit? It’s got nothing to do with the antioxidants, fiber, or flavonoids or whatever they call it. Berries are basically medicine that tastes like dessert. Every blueberry I eat feels like I’m cheating death just a little bit. The real joy? Picking out the fruit. The selection process.
Old Jewish men like me love picking fruit. It’s tactile. It’s an art. I love going to the grocery store. I love squeezing fruit, bringing it to my face to inspect as if it’s a diamond. A half hour at a New York fruit stand is a religious experience, a rite of passage. And when you find a good melon? Tell everyone. It’s your right. The guy at the bagel shop, our daughter-in-law, some stranger on the bus. We’ll say, “You gotta taste this melon. It’s like butter.” And it is.
So yes — the world may be falling apart, our prostates may be enlarged, and we may not remember where we parked, but dammit: we still have fruit. Cold. Sweet. Sanctioned by cardiologists.
And we’re not giving it up. Not ever.
Sports Desk
Horace Turnstiles, OJM Beat Reporter