So Iran signs an agreement with the US, turns around, asks Hezbollah to attack Israel. Israel defends itself. Now: closes Strait of Hormuz again. Blames Israel for it all. Objective: strain US-Israel relations. Shame on us if we fall for this.
“I was not an anti-Semite. I was just politically opposed to the Jews, because they were stealing the breath of life from us.”
— Adolf Eichmann
Eichmann, one of the principal architects of the Holocaust who helped orchestrate the murder of millions of Jews, would fit like a glove on some of today’s podcasts.
Ben & Jerry’s Israel, which has completely separated from the American Ben & Jerry's, has created a new flavor called "Milk and Honey."
The titular milk and honey are sourced entirely by Israeli cows and bees. The ice cream also features chocolate fudge Stars of David, which are shaped by hand in, you guessed it, Israel.
To some, this is the microaggression of the century. To more normal people, it's ice cream.
In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths.
Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.
I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself.
This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated.
I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?"
"Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way."
"But the store loses."
"Yep. On purpose."
On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands.
In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one.
A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir."
It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow.
I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious.
Some prices are not prices. They are promises.
I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back.
The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars.
Long may it spin.
Somewhere in America, a movie theater. The boy at the concession counter asked me a question about architecture, and called it butter.
"You want that layered?"
Layered. I looked at the popcorn. I looked at him.
"Explain."
"Instead of all the butter on top, I do butter, popcorn, butter, popcorn." He mimed the strata with a flat hand. He had explained this before. He would explain it again. A craftsman, patient with the public.
I was not prepared. In my land, what is given is given; you do not direct the distribution of a blessing. Here, the boy stood ready to construct my popcorn in courses, like a stone wall — foundation, mortar, foundation, mortar — so that no kernel, however deep, would live unblessed.
"The ones at the bottom," I said slowly, "are usually…"
"Dry. Yeah. Not on my watch."
NOT ON MY WATCH. The oath of a sentry, sworn over popcorn. This is who they have guarding the snacks.
"Then layer it," I commanded, "as your conscience demands."
He built it like a man who would be judged by it. Pour, pump, rotate. Pour, pump, rotate. Four stories. A tower of equal blessings.
The film was fine. I do not remember it. What I remember is the eightieth minute, deep in the bucket, past the depth where popcorn hope usually dies — and finding the kernels there as golden as the first.
The bottom of the bucket. As rich as the top. I confess I held one kernel up in the dark and simply looked at it.
Butter on top blesses the surface. Butter in layers blesses the whole nation.
I tipped the boy on the way out. He had already forgotten me. The best masons forget the wall, and begin the next one.
Layered. Always layered. Some words you only need to learn once.
USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.
YO HE TAKES 15 SECONDS AT THE FREE THROW LINE WITH THE BREATHING TECHNIQUE OF THE MONKS JUST TO BRICK TWO OF THE BIGGEST FREE THROWS OF HIS CAREER LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO