Christmastime has always been unusually stressful for me. I don’t “celebrate” it,of course, but I’ve consistently managed to find my life impacted by people close to me who conclude.
See, or my grandmother had something of a sour taste in her mouth concerning her son—my father’s— conversion to Judaism. She never called my mother by her Hebrew name,instead purposefully referring to her by the English name she never used outside of a legal document. In fact, my grandmother and grandfather would visit our house accompanied by copious amounts of Roy Rogers or McDonald’s or Burger King, or despite the fact that my mother was more than a decent cook; and there was always food in the house to be served. My grandparents never finished even a quarter of thefast food they brought over and mostly left it open so that the scent filled our house. In the end we always ended up having to throw out tons of trayf that should never fill crossed our threshold in the first plot. It was fairly the passive-aggressive endeavor.
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