Borsht Belt
I’ve always been Jewy, but last night I crossed over into a heretofore undiscovered realm of cranky-old-Jew-ness when, for the first time, I deemed it appropriate to consume a giant bowl of cold Borsht for dinner. I’ve documented the remaining dregs that I couldn’t quite finish here for posterity to discourage any naysayers who may be tempted to deny that I am, in fact, now elderly. The minute that sweet, ruby-red soup started sliding down my throat (and off my spoon, and down the front of my shirt), I was seized with the urge to write an angry letter to my local newspaper, argue over the price of produce at the market, and drive all over town looking for the absolute lowest gas price (odd since I don’t have a car.) So there you have it. I am now old. And I’ve got the Borsht-stained shirt to prove it. Gay gezunt areit!