Goldie's Lox And The Three Bagels: Fractured Jewish Fairy Tales
144
Goldie's Lox And The Three Bagels: Fractured Jewish Fairy Tales
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Overview
Here are all your favorite classic fairy tales as they're supposed to be told:
Goldie's Lox and the Three Bagels
Rumpleforeskin
Snow Whitefish and the Seven Dwarfkins
The Three Little Chazzers
Jake and Mr. Bienstock
Pushkin Boots
The Ugly Schmuckling
And more!
* Get lost
** Thieves
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780806537771 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 11/20/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Shlepping Beauty
Back in the days when women worked but did not have careers — except for the matchmaker, who possessed the power of clergy with none of the accountability — there dwelt in a remote hamlet a maidel named Aziza who worked at the post office and delivered the mail.
Aziza was hired because she was honest as well as pure, not like the previous clerk who was said to have stolen money orders, checks, and even dimes being sent to plant trees in Israel, the goniff!
Because she worked so hard and so diligently, carting her heavy letter bag around the village, Aziza soon earned the nickname of Shlepping Beauty.
Spying on Aziza as she made her rounds, the local matchmaker was unhappy to see how many young men sent themselves letters just so the shainkeit blonde would stop by each day.
"As long as this kurveh keeps unloading sacks around town, no man will entertain proposals!" the crone moaned. "I'll go broke!"
Nor was the matchmaker so fardrai zich dem kop. One of her best prospects was Phil, a prince of a boy who gave riding lessons — and more to the alteh moids, it was said, if the price was right — who seemed particularly smitten by the letter carrier.
Acting quickly, the matchmaker ordered hundreds of flyers advertising her services. Though it pained her to spend the money, she knew it would pain Aziza even more to shlep them door-to- door.
So it came to pass that one bright morning at the end of the week, when she was already tired, the young woman set out with her deliveries, which included bundles of pamphlets — not postcards like other local merchants, and printed on heavy fifty-pound coated stock — advertising the services of Ring Finger to Prick Matchmaking Services.
At two in the afternoon, by which time Aziza was usually done, she was only halfway through the route. Her shoulders ached, her legs were trembling, her feet were sore, and her vision was not so hot, for she thought the pole outside the barbershop had grown a head — that of the matchmaker.
But Aziza pressed on, eventually reaching the woods that separated the town from the post office. Unaccustomed to navigating the forest when the sun was setting, she soon lost her way. Crossing a cute pink bridge, she found herself in an unfamiliar thicket of thornbushes.
"Thank God I wore my gotkes," she said, for the thick undergarment protected her legs from the prickles.
Before very long, Aziza was so exhausted that she stopped and burst into tears. Suddenly, three faigelahs appeared from the darkness. They were holding their clothing and apparently had been on a botanical outing, for one of them said something about having come out here for a daisy chain with a woodsman.
"I'm sorry," sobbed the tired Aziza, "but I'm lost. Can you direct me to the post office?"
"Bubeleh, you are so off course!" said one of the men who was bronzed without tan lines. "This is Fairy Island!"
"Oy," sighed the girl.
Falling wearily to the ground, her bag fell open beside some unripe seedpods that oozed white sap. Out tumbled a postcard that one of the men eyed with interest.
"Who's the shtrudel in chaps?" he asked.
"That's an advertisement for Phil the horseman," Aziza replied.
"Is that his profession or —"
"Of course, his profession," Aziza said. "What else?"
The men tittered but said nothing.
"If only Phil were here, he would escort me safely home," the young woman went on.
"Tell you what," said one of the men. "Why don't we go and get your friend?"
"Oh, would you?" she asked.
"Even if we have to dress like a horse to get his attention!" said one.
"And kidnap him!" said the second.
"And get hung like a horse if need be," said the third.
"But tell me," Aziza said pensively. "If you know the way, why don't you just take me home?"
"Because you look tired," said the man, hiding a grin behind his mouth. "You should rest."
Aziza looked around warily.
"Oh, you're perfectly safe here," said another. "You have nothing that anyone on Fairy Island might want, except for those silk gotkes and maybe the postcard — which I'll take for reference."
"Well, I am exhausted," the girl admitted. "Maybe I'll take a little dremel."
So saying, the girl laid her head on her letter bag, but within moments she was in a deep sleep, dreaming that she was a princess in a castle with nothing to do but sing, pick flowers, and talk to animals.
Meanwhile, the three faigelahs went romping through the woods, singing, picking flowers, and talking to animals. Because it was dark when they reached the village, they went directly to a cute bed and breakfast where they slept in — carelessly forgetting their mission as they went window-shopping the next morning.
Back in the woods, the wickedly exhausted Aziza continued to sleep and sleep, for the pods beside her were poppies and their proximity had sedated her. All the while the bushes grew thicker and her sleep grew deeper and the wind took the contents of her letter bag here and there.
Yet her absence had not gone unnoticed. Phil was particularly distracted, for he had not received any mail for several days. Asking around the village, he learned that no one else had seen Shlepping Beauty either.
"She could be shacking up with Mordecai in the woods," suggested the matchmaker.
"I hear she fancies his timber."
Phil was not so sure, especially after what he overheard three strange men in the street saying about the woodsman and his parties.
Phil decided to ride out to the post office to see what had happened to the beautiful young girl — and his mail, since he was the rare Jew who did not like to wait until the last possible moment to pay his bills.
As he rode through town, one of the faigelahs happened to look up from brunch.
"Kuck!" he cried as he recognized the chaps.
"Not my scene," said Arumloifer, a young man they had invited to join them.
"The girl!"
"Only my good friends call me that!" sneered the guest.
"No, Shlepping Beauty!" he wailed.
"Gevalt!" shouted the other two faigelahs in unison.
Flying from the charming outdoor cafè, the men whistled after the horseman. Accustomed as he was to being whistled at by women, the attention of the men was new and not unintriguing. Phil stayed his horse, that wanted very much to flee, and turned to hear what all the chirping was about.
"She's in trouble!" one of the faigelahs shouted.
"Which of you?" Phil asked.
"We just used that joke!" said Arumloifer, rolling his eyes.
"Not us, silly!" cooed the man. "Shlepping Beauty!"
"Where is she?" the equestrian demanded. "What has happened?"
The faigelahs spoke at once, with speed and affectations to which his ear was unaccustomed. Pointing to one and telling him to start again, slowly, Phil listened to how the mail carrier had gotten lost and fallen asleep deep in the woods.
Driving heel to rib that set the horse's legs — and the faigelah's hearts — at a gallop, Phil rode into the forest where he soon spotted the matchmaker's flyers. Collecting them as he rode, but oblivious to the irony that the instrument of Aziza's exhaustion and their separation should also lead to their reunification, Phil finally came to the thornbushes where Shlepping Beauty lay.
Hacking through the gnarled hedge with a polo mallet — which he kept in case he was someplace where he needed to pass — Phil reached her side. Dismounting, Phil kissed her. He had done that a little backwards, he knew, but reading from right to left wasn't exactly normal either.
Shlepping Beauty opened her eyes and smiled when she saw Phil.
"Why are my gotkes between your legs?" she enquired, still groggy from the opiate.
Phil reddened and tossed them aside. "They, uh ... were torn by the thorns."
"Oh," she said. "That would also explain the blood."
The horseman nodded as he scooped Aziza from the poppies. She was grateful to be deflowered and her head cleared quickly.
The two rode back to the village, where the three faigelahs rejoiced, for they could now go shopping for gowns to wear at the wedding.
Shlepping Beauty and her prince were wed, after which she turned her business over to the three faigelahs who, she was assured, would diligently attend to the mails. So they did, giving particular attention to larger packages. As for the matchmaker, she moved to Fairy Island where she went into business arranging something called "hookups." They were shorter term and cheaper, but she made up for that in bulk.
And they all lived happily ever after, you should live so.
CHAPTER 2Hamish and Gretel
Not far enough from a great forest, that you shouldn't know from, dwelt a poor woodcutter with his wife and their two children. The boy, months shy of being a man, was called Hamish because he was so friendly, and the younger girl was named Gretel because — if you must know — they had a wealthy aunt in Pskov named Gertie who they hoped this would impress. It didn't; go know.
The woodsman was not such a good provider, as his mother-in-law had predicted, and when drought fell upon the land, he could no longer give his family their daily bread.
"What is to become of us?" moaned his wife as they lay in bed one night. "How are we to feed Hamish and his farbissoner sister?"
"You could try eating a little less," her husband suggested, glancing at her overample bosom.
"When I worry, I eat!" she snapped.
"You should have married the butcher," her husband sighed.
"Should! Should! You should have kept your shmekel buttoned," she replied, thinking of that fateful night after drinking too much Mogen David at the Schwartz bat mitzvah. "A broch," she said. "We must now do like the good book says."
"Stone the children?"
"Where will we find stones?" his wife snarled. "You used them all to build this Winter Palace, this Taj Mahal! No. Tomorrow morning we will take our children out into the wilderness, leave them there with a loaf of bread, and let God provide the rest."
The woodcutter knew better than to argue with his wife when she was in a mood, so they went to bed. He would talk sense to her in the morning, when she was busy trying to get into her girdle and would agree to anything in exchange for his help.
But the two children — who had put cheese on the cow's tongue sandwich they had had for dinner and could not sleep for the wind they broke — had heard everything. Feeling guilty because they were Jewish, not because they had done anything, the two waited until their parents were asleep. Then, tucking a loaf of bread in the pocket of his coat, Hamish took his sister by the hand and led her deep into the woods.
"Are we going back to where you made that calf out of mud, to revel unclean —?" Gretel inquired.
"Uh ... no," Hamish replied quickly. "But we are going to find a land flowing with milk and honey."
"Shouldn't you stop and get directions?" she nagged.
Hamish ignored her, for, as she continued to speak, there was aught else to do. Guided by the light of the full moon, he picked his way through unfamiliar copses — leaving behind a trail made from crumbs of bread just in case he got all tsedrait in kop and ended up in Novgorod where there were Cossacks.
They walked and walked and walked until Hamish ran out of bread and Gretel ran out of patience.
"We're going back!" she said, sounding more like her mother than Hamish had ever heard before and which was scarier than the dark night.
Unfortunately, as she turned to follow the trail of breadcrumbs, she found — much to her horror — that they had been followed by Moishe who cared for horses at the inn and had eaten every morsel.
"It's a poor groom!" Hamish shouted, scaring Moishe who ran off before they could get directions home.
"We're lost and that's all you have to say?" Gretel screamed.
"Zay gezunt!" Hamish yelled after him, for he was that kind of boy.
Lost and without food or money, Hamish and Gretel had no choice but to continue their journey. Finally, when the moon was as low as a Hassid's hemline, Hamish saw it.
"Look!" he cried, pointing.
"Shoyn tsayt," Gretel said, unimpressed. "Your finger is out of your nose."
"No, there! A cottage!"
Sure enough, the first light of dawn revealed a little house that was unlike any they had ever seen. It was built of latkes and covered with macaroons. The two ran over and began pulling at the cookies, which they were actually hungry enough to eat. Noticing that the mortar was applesauce, Hamish promptly switched to the potato shingles.
"Aleychem shalom!" came a raspy voice from behind him.
Hamish turned and saw a cat and a cigarette. Between them was a face that belonged on a golem.
"Grandma?" asked Hamish.
But then the smoke cleared, and he saw that it was not Tillie Obolensky but someone who only smelled like her. Hamish reflexively withdrew to protect his cheeks, before realizing that they were entirely safe.
"Nosh, nosh, nosh. Who is noshing at my house?" she cackled.
Hamish and Gretel stopped eating at once. Behind them, a halvah window frame fell from the partly eaten wall. The matzoh shutters shattered upon hitting the ground.
"Look!" shouted Hamish. "I found the afikomen!"
Gretel was too frightened to sneer at him.
"Actually," Hamish continued, "we are the Brill-steins, one of the lost tribes of — "
"Sha!" the crone shouted. "My lawyer will be in touch about the window. Now, no more of your bobe mayses! If you're hungry, come inside. People call me Tanta Rose. I have chicken soup."
Startled by the woman's generosity, the children followed her inside.
"Maybe we can settle about the window," Hamish whispered hopefully to his sister.
"How?"
"I'll think of something," Hamish said. He looked at the old woman's legs, which protruded from her housedress like tree stumps, the stockings bunched below her knobbed knees. The thought of any act performed in their proximity, even massaging her feet, was so chalushisdick that he began reciting his haftorah just to chase away the image.
The woman gestured toward a table. It was covered with a cloth that looked like it hadn't been changed since the year gimel. Wax from countless Sabbaths hung from silver candlesticks in the center. Soot from the fireplace coated the furniture.
"You do a lot of cooking," Hamish observed, his eyes settling on a huge, bubbling cauldron in the hearth.
The woman shrugged. "The children never call. Besides Hadassah meetings and Mah Jongg, what else is there to do? That's how I came to build this house. There was no one to take home leftovers, and who wants to waste? But sit," she went on. "You must be famished."
As you are farmisht, Hamish thought as he took a seat at the table.
His sister joined him as the woman filled bowls — her everyday bowls, not even the ones for company — with chicken soup from the cauldron.
"Don't worry, it's all kashruit," the woman said. "I do it myself, you see. Drain the little boys — did I say boys?" she laughed. "I mean, the little chickens. If you want it done right, you know what they say!"
As the slow-moving yenta started to shuffle back, Gretel realized something. Quick like a bunny, the girl jumped from her seat, ran toward their hostess, and, with a zetz like you wouldn't believe, knocked the woman into the fire.
"A shvartz yor!" the old woman screeched as she exploded in flames, her dry flesh going up like the price of a suit bought retail.
"Why did you do that?" Hamish cried. "We hadn't eaten!"
"This was no Tanta Rose," Gretel assured him. "She was a witch."
"How do you know?"
"Look around you," the girl replied. "There isn't a single plastic cover on any of the furniture."
Hamish wasn't bowled over by her reasoning, but at least they didn't have to worry about the broken window and lawyers.
Because it was daylight, the children were able to find their way home. Their parents were sleeping late like they used to when the kids stayed with Aunt Gertie and hadn't noticed the children were gone. Annoyed to be awakened, the woodcutter and his wife forgave the children when Hamish and Gretel took them to the cottage in the woods. They would have enough to eat for months, and even better, the trees here were plentiful. If they moved in, the woodcutter was sure he could write it off as a business expense.
The family lived there, and Aunt Gertie — who loved halvah and heard it was plentiful — even came to visit. She remembered Hamish and Gretel in her will after all, and so, finally, everyone lived happily ever after.
CHAPTER 3The Three Billy Goats Kosher
Once upon a time, Stan Beteavon and Sons ran a kosher farm where they also trained those who wished to learn the ways of preparing food according to Jewish dietary laws.
"Always remember," Stan would tell his class, "you can tell an animal is kosher if its hooves are completely parted at the bottom to form two horny pads and if it chews the cud.
"Pigs have split hooves but do not chew their cud, so they are not kosher. Also camels, though they chew their cud, have only partially split hooves, so they are also not kosher."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Goldie's Lox and the Three Bagels"
by .
Copyright © 2007 Jeff Rovin.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Title Page,
Shlepping Beauty,
Hamish and Gretel,
The Three Billy Goats Kosher,
Snow Whitefish and the Seven Dwarfkins,
Pushkin Boots,
Rumpleforeskin,
The Ugly Shmuckling,
The Torah Rebbe and the Hare Krishna,
The Three Little Chazzers,
The Jewish American Princess and the Pea,
Little Red Pesadica Sheitel,
Goldie's Lox and the Three Bagels,
The Cantor's New Shmattas,
Jake and Mr. Bienstock,
Rapunseltov,
Copyright Page,