Three times a year Jack's mom sends us a big Zabar's box containing a dozen bagels, two things of lox, a bag of cinnamon rugelach, a pound of coffee, and two containers of the best, most fattiest, heart-attackenest cream cheese in all the world (one regular, one chive).
But we always sort of forget they're going to arrive. She normally sends one on Jack's birthday and one on Father's Day, but last Friday when a Zabar's box arrived at the door, Jack was all, Look! My mom sent us bagels for, uh, Halloween!
I think they're for our anniversary, I said.
Our what? said Jack.
Monday was our thirteenth anniversary. Traditionally, the gift for that one is lace, the Internet now tells me; modern alternatives are textiles and faux fur, which I just mistakenly read as tentacles and faux fur. The mind reels.
The thing is, last week I'd just bought a pound of lox and a dozen bagels down at Jerry's in Woodland Hills when I had lunch with Suzy, so all of a sudden our freezer looks like -- well, I don't know what it looks like, but it doesn't look like it belongs to a bunch of Irish Catholics (apart from the rosary frozen into the ice cube tray).
A person can only eat so much lox. That's just science. So eventually, as the days wear on, I start eating bagels with butter, just for a change. Or I'll spread some jam on there. This makes Jack insane. Like, the only respectful way to treat a bagel that's flown all the way from New York and given up its life in our toaster is to reverently smooth an inch of cream cheese over it's top with a silver knife and beg for its permission to take a bite. (And then feel really guilty about it.)
But what am I supposed to do? It's only Wednesday and I'm officially sick to death of lox. I don't want to see another cold slice of tomato or paper-thin ring of Bermuda onion until January. And for the love of God, don't open those capers in front of me!
This morning I ate half a sesame bagel covered in almond butter and Nutella. I expect Jack and I will be going into counseling next week.