You’re invited to join the royal family for a catered kosher dinner at Buckingham
Palace. You’re introduced to the Prince of Wales. “Whooo-hoooo!” he shouts in a thick
Cockney accent. “Great to meet a real American Jew! Wanna join me for a poker game
Is this really the prince? He surely doesn’t speak like one.
As the Rosenbergs walked to their cousins’ house for Shabbos lunch, Eli
Rosenberg began to regret accepting the invitation. At the table, the conversation was
just what Eli feared: a critique of the rabbi’s speech; snide remarks about the neighbors
the cousins had seen in shul; the children’s nasty impressions of their classmates; and so
As the Rosenbergs walked home from their cousins’ house, five-year-old Danny
“Is Cousin Yaakov’s food kosher?” he asked.
“Of course, Danny! Why would you ask that?” his father answered.
“’Cause it doesn’t feel like a Jewish place,” he answered simply.
Our Jewish neshamah, the Divine spark that sets us apart, gives us royal status.
Someone who “dishes the dirt” is like a pauper in prince’s clothing. He might look the
part, but from the moment he opens his mouth he casts doubt on his identity.