My mother said it wasn't the time for fried clams. She said, "Honey, fried clams are delicious but do you really have to? Today?" It was Easter, and as most half-Jewish but non-denominational families, we were practicing our traditional driving-towards-a-non-denominational-eating-hole in celebration of the non-denominational side of a seemingly arbitrary Sunday. My mother, being the Jewish one, liked to assert her "heritage" into the day's festivities by implementing her kind of sick Eastern European Shari'a, which, while denying me such excitables as enslaving my neighbor Rich for stealing my x-wing, insisted I refrain from the always delicious: fried clams.
"But I'll starve," I whimpered, drooling ever so discreetly at the fleeting image of my beloved clams. My parents chuckled, looking into their various mirrors to catch a glimpse of my utter disappointment. "It's all I love..."
"You love lot's of stuff, buddy. What about 3 Ninjas?
"Yeah..."
"Besides, we're going to the diner!"
"The d--diner?"
"Yes," he said. "The diner."
"You mean dinner?"
"The diner is a place to get dinner. It has everything in the world to eat."
Glory be! I thought. My mind raced. Images of plantains stuffed with langoustines stuffed with utter-cream sent peristaltic tidal waves through my viscera.
"Mozzarella sticks?"
"Yes."
"Prime rib?"
"Yes, yes!"
"...Side of gravy boat?"
They turned to one another with expressions of pure love. My father took my mother's hand and held it on the stick shift, downshifted as we pulled into Nellies Restaurant. After the gravy boats came (two each) and I pooped a little in its presence, we held hands and said a brief prayer to a deity of our choosing. I choose the god of the beef fat. Mom was thrilled at my piety.
