Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony

“Not again,” sighed Betsy Kendy.

“What’s wrong?” asked her grandmother, Claire Randall.

“Oh, every cake. Every cake. Mom buys the unclaimed specialty cakes at the grocery store, because they’re cheaper, so every cake we eat says ‘Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony,’ on it.”

This, of course, gave Claire Randall an idea. Betsy’s birthday party was coming up. Claire went to the Slob-Mart bakery. The woman working there was a typical Slob-Mart employee—stained smock, maybe 30-maybe 50, sad face, dull eyes. Her name tag read “Cristil.”

Claire knew this would be difficult, but she went at it slowly, explaining what she wanted, a cake that said “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony.” She spelled both “bar mitzvah” and “Anthony.”

“That’s interesting,” said the Cristil. “Anthony isn’t a common name for a Jewish boy. Would you like a Star of David on it?”

This was not what Claire expected. “Uh…yes, that would be nice,” she said.

“Also I could do a scroll from the Torah. Or a burning bush. Maybe the Red Sea parting. It’s harder to represent the Kaballah. Or Hasids. Is Anthony Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform?”

“Are you Jewish?” Claire blurted out.

“Oh, no,” said Cristil. “I’m Christian. But our story starts with Abraham, you know, not Jesus. Maybe you’d like something in Hebrew on Anthony’s cake?”

“No,” said Claire, “but I’d like another cake for myself. Can you write ‘Don’t assume anything, Stupid?’ on it?”