August 9, 2017--World of My Uncles

I've been rereading Irving Howe's brilliant World of Our Fathers: The Journey of the East European Jews to America and the Life they Found and Made.

I read it when it was first published 41 years ago, but now, at this late(r) stage of my life, it is more meaningful.

My maternal grandparents made that journey in 1913 from Poland to New York City. Years later, still a child I heard harrowing stories about their life of struggle in the shtetl of Tulowice and the bloody pogroms that swept over them and convinced them it was time to leave before it became more than just bloody.

I knew my grandfather came first and managed somehow to save enough money working as a baker to send, two years later, for my grandmother and their five children, including my then five-year-old mother.

I knew they began life in America in a cold-water, one-bedroom apartment in a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and then after a number of years moved to a more wholesome and spacious flat in pre-hipster Brooklyn.

I knew that two of my aunts were active in the garment workers union and as suffragettes marched proudly and frequently in support of women's right to vote. This finally was possible as the result of the 1920 ratification of the 19th Amendment to the Constitution.

I knew that my mother trained to be a teacher and with "Mooney" as her last name (Mooney, substituting for Munya, was assigned to them at Ellis Island by an Irish immigration officer) and with her blue eyes, she was able to "pass" as gentile and thereby find a teaching job in the NYC public school system, at that time controlled and largely populated, again, by the Irish.

But I knew nothing of their inner lives, especially what they believed and hoped for other than that their children and grandchildren would have "a better life." If by that they meant economically, all managed to do so.

But with World of Our Fathers echoing within me, evoking memories I had not for decades revisited, more of those inner realities are becoming clearer to me. Including my own spirit as, I suppose, I too have been passing.

For example, I learned from Howe how most immigrants experienced three simultaneous dislocations--they left their homes and emigrated to new ones in America; they needed to find ways to support themselves--most had lived rural lives and now needed to become viable in a city of strivers; and under pressure to Americanize they largely abandoned religious orthodoxy and over time even the embracing and comforting culture of Yiddishkeit.

And so what were they left with beyond hoping for better lives for their children?

Taking the place of Judaism itself and the security that Yiddish culture offered, they turned to Zionism (calling for a homeland for Jews in Palestine), unionization (to improve working conditions), and then Socialism and for many Communism (to heal the world).

And they also began to shape a new culture for themselves that centered around Yiddish poetry, folk stories, and theater.

On reflection I now understand better what my extended family, especially my Uncle Morty was urging. This was not always easy to infer as he spoke mainly Yiddish, English haltingly, and I spoke English, with a little halting Yiddish.

He would place me beside him on his collapsing sofa and read in Yiddish Sholom Aleichem stories that appeared in the newspaper, the Jewish Daily Forward (affectionally referred to all as the Forverts). He knew of course that the Yiddish was beyond my capacities but I am certain now that he cared more that I absorb the sound and comfort, the soul of that hybrid language than follow the thread of Aleichem's simple narratives.

And then, in his halting English, he would read to me from the other paper he took, The Daily Worker. In this instance he cared less about the intricacy of its Communist orthodoxies than he wanted me to take in some of its fervor.

So now, rereading World of Our Fathers I understand better Yiddish critic B. Rivkin, who Howe quotes--

A huge mass of potential readers was gathering in the cities. Even if they hadn't wished to, they really had no choice but to learn Yiddish. It was the only language that could gradually lead them into the life of the new country. . . . They felt themselves lost in a "desert" where men seemed like grains of sand and the new language, English, was difficult to learn. So they naturally turned back to Yiddish. . . . Even complete illiterates--and there were quite a few among the early immigrants--as well as the many half-illiterates, who could spell out a few words in the Hebrew prayer books, now troubled to learn the alphabet in order at least to be able to read a daily Yiddish paper. 

Even more, I now understand Howe--

Is there anything comparable in the whole modern period? An uprooted people, a broken culture, a literature releasing the crude immediacies of plebeian life, a once provincial in accent and universalist in its claims. As their lives fell into routine, the Jewish immigrants displayed strong if primitive cultural appetites. 

And especially the final word from Rivkin--

Poems and stories helped them to understand their new environment . . . and most of all themselves. They sought in literature the same thing they wanted in a newspaper: a way of becoming somewhat less of a "greenhorn," a way of escaping a little from their loneliness. And when a poem and story gave them a certain enlightenment about mankind in general, the greenhorns began to feel they were becoming a little Americanized.

In a different mode, tomorrow I will post a story I wrote some years ago about Uncle Morty's other life.

June 23, 2016--Creme de la Phlegm

"I don't know how to put this," our friend Bob said the other day, "But every time we have morning coffee together both you and Rona are coughing and sneezing and constantly having to blow your noses."

"It's true," I said. "Sometimes it's allergy season and though neither one of us really has allergies when there's so much pollen in the air . . . Well, you know."

"You never hear me coughing and wheezing."

"Good for you," Rona said, with a tincture of annoyance. She was having a rough respiratory morning.

"By midday, generally, we're both fine," I said, "It's mainly true in the morning. You should hear what we sound like at home. Before we head for the diner."

"Well, at least you have each other," Bob said. This time sounding slightly compassionate. "To tell you the truth," he continued, looking out the window, "I was wondering if something else is going on."

"Like what?" I asked.

"As I said, it's a little delicate."

"I've never known you to be delicate," Rona said, "That's not your forte. You're more the tell-it-like-you-think-it-is type."

"Go on, Bob, we can handle it. What's on your mind?"

"You won't take offense? Promise?"

"It depends," I said, "But give it a try."

"It's no secret that you're Jewish, right. Both of you." Now he was leaning on the window sill with his back half to us.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rona asked, not sounding happy.

"You know."

"I don't know," I said, now also a little agitated. "Spit it out. Forgive the figure of speech."

"That you're Jewish."

"We established that already."

Now turning to face us, he said, "Is it true what they say about Jews being phlegmy?"

"Phlegmy? And who's the they?" I said, increasingly annoyed with him.

"You know me well enough to know I'm not one of those anti . . . anti . . ."

"Anti-Semites," Against my better judgement I helped him.

"That's not me. You know me how many years? Have you ever heard me say . . ."

"I know, some of your best friends are Jews." Now it was Rona's turn to turn her back to the table.

Defending himself, Bob said, "All I was wondering about was your mucous. Not your religion."

"So why did you link it to our being Jewish? You may not have intended it to be anti-Semitic," I said, "But it sure turned out to sound that way."

"If so, I apologize and promise to be more careful in the future."

"That's all I could ask," Rona said, sounding forgiving. Bob really is quite a good guy and isn't really prejudiced. Not about anything. In fact, he's very tolerant of people's differences and a genuine Libertarian.

"So if I'm a little forgiven, what about what I was asking you about? But please don't get mad again."

"About the phlegm business?" Rona said.

"At the risk of sounding anti-Semitic myself," I said, "I think there's some truth to what you were saying. There are physical, even genetic conditions that are more common among certain racial and ethnic groups. Like Sickle Cell among black people and yes, in addition to Tay-Sachs disease and my favorite, Maple Syrup Urine disease, there are, I'm not making this up, about 100 conditions  that are prevalent primarily among Jews. So I think it may be fair to say that by nature we're phlegmier than some other groups."

"And maybe that's why there are so many Jewish doctors." Rona was now smiling.

"You said it; I didn't," Bob said. Then added, "OK, having established that," Bob was feeling totally off the hook, "What about the Jewish language?"

"Yiddish?"

"Yes, Yiddish. Isn't it true that it helps to be phlegmy to pronounce certain words?"

"That's a new one to me," I said. "Can you give me an example or two?"

"Maybe one since I'm not too up on my Jewish, I mean my Yiddish." For the first time he beamed one of his characteristic smiles. "How about 'hot-spur?'"

"Hot-spur? Never heard of it."

"You've used it a number of times. It's one of my favorites. Means being assertive or, trickier in ethic stereotyping terms, pushy." He maintained his smile.

"I get it," Rona said, "Chutzpah. Not 'hot-spur,' though I like you're version. It's right out of Shakespeare and a wonderful malaprop."

Bob then said, "Look at the difference in the way each of us pronounced it--chutzpah. With all your phlegm you made it sound so authentic, so rich. It's a word made for people who produce lots of mucous."

Getting into it, I said, "Here are some others for you. Yiddishisms that sound better with phlegm flowing--Mishpocha (family), yenta (a gossip), kvech (to complain), gonef (a thief), boychik (a young boy) . . ."

"That one, boy-chick, I could have figured out. I love these!" Bob gushed.

"There are more," I said, on a roll, "Kishkes (intestines, like punch him in the kishkes), bubkes (meaning nothing, as in he has bubkes), nachos (a pleasure), and even kosher. With these it does help to be phlegmy"

Bob was having a wonderful time. And by then so were we.

"And let's no forget all the Jewish foods," I said. "Mainly what I call the K-foods because they start with the letter K--kugel (or noodle pudding), kasha varnishkas (buckwheat with bow-tie noodles), kreplach (the Jewish version of wantons), of course knishes (potato or kasha filled), kichel cookies, and even kishke (cooked beef intestines)--not my favorite."

Rona made a face and said, "But there are hundreds more," Rona said. "And like most of these even if you don't understand them, they sort of sound like what they mean. Kvech is a perfect example. Complaining just sounds like kvetching."

"What about choch-key?" Bob asked.

"That's another new one to me," I said.

Rona said, "He means tchotchke--a knick-knack."

"I have a whole lot of those," Bob said, "A barn full of 'em. Sally's always after me about them. She says, 'Can't you get rid of those tchotchkes.'"

I said, "Think about how much better that would sound if you had a mouth full of phlegm."

Some of Bob's Tchotchkes

June 14, 2008--Midcoast: Alte Kaker Checklist

John and I have a lot in common.

Though I am a little older, at this age, the few extra years I have on him do not make that much of a difference. We both have our aches and pains.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. He, on the other hand, likely has a different perspective and probably thinks those few years do make a difference, quite a difference. He after all two weeks ago with a buddy drove 10 hours north to the Gaspe Peninsula and went salmon fishing in the Cascapedia River. In the rain and in a canoe, if you can believe it. His partner caught a 35-pound salmon the first morning out and John helped land it.

I, on the other hand, that weekend, did a lot of reading and napping.

So when we met at Chrissy's for breakfast after he got back--wheezing and coughing--we picked up on one of our favorite discussions--aging.

Another thing we share in common is the fact that we both had ancient mothers. John's died two years ago at about 105; mine nearly a year ago at 107. So, from that alone, we are authorities on the subject.

And thus in an attempt to inoculate ourselves from the inevitable, we try to make light of this otherwise terrifying subject. So after hearing about the salmon (and seeing pictures to prove he wasn't just spinning a fish story), I unveiled my latest idea--an Alte Kaker Checklist.

Though John is not Jewish and doesn't understand many Yiddish expressions, having grown up in nearby New Jersey he knows enough to know that alte kaker refers to us--gracefully-aging men.

"Give me an example of what would be on the checklist," John said, humoring me. He had more salmon-fishing stories he was eager to share.

After hearing a few more, I said, "For example, Do you have two-inch-long hair growing our of (a) your eyebrows, (b) your ears, (c) your nose, (d) all of the above."

Warming to this, John plunged in, "In my case, eyebrows for sure." He brushed them up to demonstrate.

"I also see one growing out of the tip of your nose," I said leaning toward him and squinting.

Noticing the squinting he said, "How about--"How many pairs of glasses do you need?"

"For me--three," I said, "(a) one of course for reading, (b) another for driving, and then (c) a third pair for middle-distance seeing. Like for watching TV."

"I only need two," he said, flaunting his superiority or to emphasize that three or four years difference in our ages does in fact make a difference. "But," he quickly confessed, "I do or did have a detached retina. In alte kaker terms that must count for something."

"Unfortunately, yes," I said, "Admittedly though it's not the same thing, I'm growing cataracts," I said, to one-up him, "I think in both eyes."

"I already had mine done," he said. "Also both of them. Remember that--two, three years ago?"

"Put that on the checklist too," I said, "Unable to remember things from (a) childhood, (b) two years ago, (c) yesterday."

"Or, how about (d) what you just had for breakfast?"

"I think maybe it was a croissant."

To play along with him, I tried to sound befuddled. Which unfortunately was not that difficult to do. "Clearly also coffee," I said tapping my half-full mug.

"Can we agree to leave aches and pains off the list?"

"I understand. That could be a checklist all its own--an aches and pains one."

"While fishing," John said already violating our agreement, "I developed this pain in my shoulder." Grimacing, he rubbed it, "I had trouble casting my flies into the river. And forget about driving."

Changing the subject, I said, "How about, (a) no longer drive after dark, (b) can't hear cars passing on the right or left, (c) drive in the left lane five miles an hour below the speed limit."

"I've got another one for you," John chuckled, "(d) ignore wife's driving directions."

"How about (a) wearing a belt with suspenders, (b) need orthopedic shoes, (c ) found myself wearing one brown and one black sock."

"Or, (a) can't bend over to tie my shoelaces, (b) . . ."

"Me too. These days I find myself preferring slip-ons."

"Need to sit on the side of the bed when putting on my jockeys and pants."

"How about, (a) wake up to go the bathroom, (b) wake up twice to go, (c) three times, (d) . . ."

"New rule," John said cutting me off.

"What's that?"

"I think we should agree not to go there."

"Go where?"

"How should I put this--below the belt, if you get my meaning."

I quickly did and agreed. "Indeed I do. This is supposed to be fun. In another minute it could get depressing."

"I'll tell you what's depressing," John said.

"What's that?"

"That you're thinking about wearing suspenders."

"Or your admitting you get up three times a night to . . ."

"I said no such thing. The situation is bad enough without needing to get too specific."

Beginning to get up--he still has a business to run--he signaled to me to turn my one good ear toward him and with a lowered voice admitted, "OK, maybe two times."

May 11, 2016--Kosher Pot

My first job was delivering groceries for the owner of Friedman's on Church Avenue in East Flatbush.

I worked for tips--a dime was the usual gratuity with the very occasional quarter from the few more successful gentile neighbors like Mrs. Smith, wife of Dr. Smith who owned the nearby pharmacy. He wasn't an actual doctor but that's what we called him, especially at those times when he would dispense medications without a prescription, remove a cinder from someone's eye, or dig out a splinter with a hopefully sterilized needle. For these we preferred to think we were in a doctor's hands.

In truth, rather than delivering cheese, dried goods, and paper products, I preferred to linger with Mr. Friedman and, when there was a lull, when we were the only two people there, listen to him tell stories about the "old country." Very much including the pogroms he experienced when he was my age. I was eleven at the time.

I tired to imagine what that would have been like and how I would have fared. Not feeling good about my robustness, I suspected I would not have endured as I could not find anything within myself to match his powerful will or survival instincts.

One bleak afternoon, with the skies threatening and the store lights half extinguished, since no one was shopping, haltingly, I confessed this to him.

With his liquid eyes fixed on me, he put his hand on my shoulder and in his thick accent assured me how I would "be surprised." And he confessed, "About myself I used to think the same way. Now, look at me. I'm here. Such as it is, I live."

He shrugged, smiled enigmatically, and spread his arms to their full span as if encouraging me to examine him and thereby find assurance that I too had what it takes. As if to say, "This is all I am. As is also true for you. Just flesh."

One afternoon, a few days before the first night of Passover, Mr. Friedman asked if I could stay late and help him with something. I felt honored by that as it was clear that whatever it was he needed to do would require just the two of us.

I said I very much wanted to but needed to ask my mother if it was all right. "About how late will you need me?" I asked, knowing that would be her main concern.

"Maybe to eight o'clock."

I ran the two blocks to our apartment and, gasping for air, told my mother about Mr. Friedman's request. Without asking why, which I would not have been able to say, she said, "Make sure you take a sweater. When you come home it will be cold out."

I raced back to the store with my long-sleeve sweater tied around my waist.

"Come with me to the back," he said. That was his sanctuary. No one was allowed to go behind the curtain that provided privacy.

There was a cot, small light, and a battered table on which there were copies of the Daily News, the New York Post, and a cigar box that he moved close to the light so I could see what it contained.

"You know about Passover?" he said.

"You mean the matzoh and Four Questions?" There was a lot more I could have added.

"I mean about kosher."

"I know that we eat only things that are considered kosher for the seders."

"So you know about kosher for Pesach?"

"I'm not sure I know what you think I know," I said avoiding eye contact.

"How there is kosher and then there is kosher."

He could see I was confused so he said, "There is the regular kosher for every time of the year except Pesach. And then there is kosher for Passover."

"I know about that," I said, feeling good that I understood. "There are even separate Passover dishes."

"So, tonight," he said, smiling more than I had ever seen, "Tonight you will make kosher."

Again, I was confused. Sensing that he said,"In this box," he tapped the cover of the cigar box, "is what you need to make kosher. For Pesach."

"Make kosher? Don't the rabbis do that and . . ."

"Gonifs," he snorted. "Criminals."

"You mean the rabbis?" I was shocked to hear him say that. I always thought . . .

"With their hands out they come around schnorring."

"Schnorring?"

"To make kosher for Passover. Take the matzoh meal. Does your mother make matzoh ball soup?"

"She does, but . . ."

"It's supposed to be made especially for Passover. Not the matzoh meal we have in the store for the rest of the year."

"And . . . ?" I was surprised at my persistence, that I just didn't stand there nodding my head, pretending I understood.

"Two kinds matzoh meal. Mashuggah."

"So . . . ?"

"So, tonight you are making the matzoh and the dairy kosher for Pesach."

"Me? How?"

"With this box." He handed the cigar box to me. "With the labels in the box. Take one out."

I opened the lid slowly for fear that it might emit some dangerous emanation. But instead I found a benign stack of Kosher for Pesach labels.

"Go back outside," Mr. Friedman said, taking hold of my shoulders and turning me firmly toward the curtain that led back to the store. And with my back to him, just before giving me a gentle push forward, said, "Go and make kosher. I'd rather pay you than those gonif rabbis."

And with that, as if in a Hasid trance, I headed to the aisle where the matzoh products were shelved and from the top shelf down affixed Kosher for Pesach labels on all the boxes.

From the back room, Mr. Friedman called to me, "And don't forget the milk and cream in the refrigerator."

I was reminded of this passage-to-adulthood experience when reading the other day in the New York Times about how the Orthodox Union, the group that presides over the kosher laws in America--decides what is or isn't suitable to be considered kosher and thereby secure the coveted OU label--is struggling with how to think about the inexorable movement in American to make marijuana legal--for both medicinal and recreational purposes.

They have apparently agreed that since marijuana is not used to cure illnesses but to ameliorate pain and nausea, that for orthodox Jews to use it for those purposes it must be judged to be kosher, which, among other things means that the pot plants must be grown in an insect-free environment since, with few exceptions such as for locusts, insects are not kosher. (Fired locusts, FYI, is a popular snack among Israelis.)

If it were to be used to cure illnesses, even if the medicine contained bacon fat, it would be permissible. The kosher designation would not be necessary. The rabbis can be quite flexible when it comes to certain kind of meds.

So, representatives of the OU are making the rounds of those marijuana farmers who are seeking their endorsement in order to expand their businesses.

One thing Orthodox Union leaders have already decided is not to consider recreational use of pot to be eligible for kosher-bosher designation. So, when in Colorado and looking for some Alice B. Toklas brownies, don't expect to find packages with the OU seal. You're on your own.

December 24, 2105--Schlonged

Donald TRUMP is right, Hillary Clinton in 2008 did get schlonged by Barack Obama.

When primary season commenced, she had a huge lead in the polls over not just Barack Obama but was besting all other contenders--among them, Joe Biden, John Edwards, and Chris Dodd.

Then out of seemingly nowhere, along came Barack Obama. He won the Iowa caucuses and over time beat her and won the nomination. The rest is history.

But now we're not talking about history but about TRUMP's use of a Yiddish epithet to characterize her defeat.

In my old Brooklyn neighborhood, on East 56th Street, where in many households Yiddish was either the first or second family language--a neighborhood geographically and culturally not too distant from the goyishe one where The Donald grew up--at the end of a punchball or stickball game, parents would ask how did it go? How did you do?

If we got killed, rather than putting it that way or more formally ("We lost by a large margin"), we would say, "We got schmaltzed" (idiomatically, chicken fat or as in schmaltz herring) or more commonly, when the defeat was most painful, we would mutter, "We got schlonged."

I would say this in front of my very proper mother. Not once did she correct or admonish me though she was not loath to do so when I committed other infractions of speech or etiquette.

So, perhaps naively, I grew up never knowing the first meaning of schlong. The noun schlong (penis) rather than its verb form--schlonged (to be overwhelmingly defeated.)

And, I suspect, neither did Donald TRUMP.

I get it--TRUMP should not have used schlonged even if he didn't realize is was one of dozens of Yiddish slang words for penis. (Just as there are dozens in English and pretty much every other language.) He should be more temperate, proper, presidential.

To underscore his offensive but potentially innocent use of schlonged, check out Tuesday's headline in the Huffington Post--"Donald Trump Goes Full Schmuck, Uses Yiddish Word for Penis to Mock Hillary Clinton."

Not apparently realizing that schmuck itself is another Jewish slang word for penis.

And then there was Dana Millbank's piece in Tuesday's Washington Post. When it first appeared in the earliest edition and on line the tittle was, "Oy Vey! Donald Trump is a Putz."

Later additions had it, "Oy Vey! Enough of Trump." Tacit acknowledgment that Millbank, though Jewish, didn't realize that putz is, yes, another way of referring to the penis.

TRUMP's stupid comment was quickly taken up by Hillary Clinton and her people as evidence that TRUMP is not fit to be president. As she put it, "He can't bully his way to the presidency." Sounding like poor Jeb! who, to show his alpha maleness, has been indignantly saying that TRUMP can't "insult his way to the presidency."

In regard to Hillary's bullying comment. at an event two days ago in Iowa, with her arms around a 16 year-old girl who, without emotion much less tears, asked what Clinton will do to stop bullying.

Clinton's response was that she too has been bullied and that we should take measures to overcome it. The feeling was more whiny than forceful. Not like a potential commander-in-chief who is able to shrug off these kinds of things.

TRUMP's stupidity was distracting enough--reporters stopped talking about her TRUMP and ISIS untruths and exaggerations during Saturday's Democratic debate--that she didn't need to cite sexism or embrace victimhood.

On the other hand, Jeb! did get one thing right--TRUMP is a "jerk."

That's a better way of dealing with this kind of adolescent behavior. If TRUMP wants to be president, he should know better. He doesn't any longer live on East 56th Street.

June 3, 2014--Take My Wife . . . Please.

I always thought the roots of Jewish humor were those described by Sigmund Freud in his book, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious.

He argued that most Jewish jokes indicate Jewish people's ability to (a) engage in a thorough self-criticism of themselves, (b) advocate a democratic way of life, (c) emphasize the moral and social principles of the Jewish religion, (d) criticize the excessive requirement of it, and (e) reflect on the misery of many Jewish communities.

If you think of Woody Allen as the quintessential schlemiel and self-mocking jokester, only (a) and (e) pertain. Jewish humor is all based on self- and communal criticism and the resulting inner turmoil, misery, and self-pity. There's nothing in Woody's humor or any really funny Jewish humor about democracy or the moral principles of the Jewish religion.

It's hard to think of anything funny to say about any of these high-minded concepts. But Freud was a theorist without much of a sense of humor and so . . .

Recently, I have come to a very different conclusion--

Much of Jewish humor is derived from Jewish food.

Not the food itself, which when ingested can cause all sorts of inner misery and gas (both subjects of many jokes), but the names of our favorite traditional foods--from Bagels to Knishes to Tsimmis.

What other food traditions have so many foods with funny names? Veal Parmigianna? Cog au vin? Meatloaf? Corn beef and cabbage? Not even close to being as funny as Flanken, Ruglach, or Gedempte Fleisch.

A crepe is not funny, but a Blintz is. A porterhouse steak may bring you culinary pleasure, but not as many laughs as Brisket. It could be worth lingering over sweet and sour soup but Matzoh Balls, though tasteless, are funnier.

Neil Simon has a theory that words beginning with K's (or hard Cs) are funny. In the Sunshine Boys, one of the Boys, Willie, an old vaudevillian, gives his nephew a lecture about what's funny--

Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know words that are funny and which words are not funny. Alka Seltzer is funny. You say "Alka Seltzer" you get a laugh . . . Words with "K" in them are funny. And with Cs. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny. Cupcake is funny. Tomato is not funny. Cookie is funny. Cucumber is funny. Chicken is funny. Pickle is funny.

People who study what's funny agree. There are some sounds in English that are by their nature funny. Those that begin with P's, B's, T's, D's, hard-C's, and especially K's.

These sounds are called by linguists plosive consonants because they are plosive, they "start suddenly." And thus for some reason make us laugh.

Though not funny, this helps explain why Jewish foods, the plosive names of Jewish foods, are so funny. Also, since Jews spend a lot of time dealing with phlegm, often the result of eating the wrong thing, we thus specialize in sounds and words that make creative use of it. Think, for example, of Felix Unger's honking in Neil Simon's Odd Couple.

P-foods include pickled herring, pirogue (dumplings ), pletzel (flat bread), p'tcha (calves foot jelly) and of course pastrami.

B-foods are among the most familiar to non-Jews (and gentile New Yorkers)--babka (two b's plus one k), bialy, borscht, blintz, brisket, and the universal bagel.

T-foods include teiglach (small sweet pastries) and tzimmes (a stew of carrots, yams, and raisins). Both delicious and funny.

Foods beginning with G's are the well-known goulash and gefilte fish as well as chicken skin cracklings called gribbenes, perhaps my all time favorite Jewish food name.

And finally there are all the funny food names that begin with K's--kasha varnishkas (groats with farfalle pasta), kichel (egg-dough cookies), kneidlach (the Yiddish name for matzoh balls), knishes, kreplach (similar to pierogi), kugel (a sweet and savory casserole with lots of broad noodles), and kishke (beef intestines that also is used in expressions such as the alliterative, "Kick him in the kishkes").

When you grow up eating food with these kinds of names (and don't forget lox), a predisposition to humorous stories and jokes is inevitable. Couple this with self-mockery and gas and, Freud aside, there you have the real roots of Jewish humor.