Free Beyond Blonde by Teresa Toten

like a pretty flexible lot, which was perfect because I didn’t want to sweat the details. The details are why I couldn’t be Catholic. Catholics had way too many details.
    I made an altar by piling up Mama’s stockpot on top of our Polish to English and Bulgarian to English dictionaries. I covered it all with several of Auntie Luba’s crocheted doilies. I got a nice long cream candle from Madison and stuck it in a silver candleholder that had belonged to Papa’s grandpa inPoland. All in all, my altar looked quite festive, if not technically accurate. Still, I was sure that Buddha would approve; he was all about getting rid of your suffering. Between the melodrama of my Eastern Europeanness and the daily opera that was Mama, I’d cut my teeth on suffering. Enough already. Buddhism and me—hand in glove except for the fact that the overall vibe was maybe a bit too blissed out. I wasn’t sure I could handle that much serenity, hence the Jewish part. Not too much, just enough to goose all that bliss and make me feel comfortably uncomfortable.
    I explained all this to Papa on the Saturday after the funeral. Mama was showing houses, so Papa and I were having lunch. Just like the old days.
    So normal … but not.
    We were enjoying our favourite meal, Auntie Eva’s bread and our special Campbell’s tomato soup, which was one can each and only half the liquids they tell you so that it’s closer to warm ketchup than soup. Heaven. He glanced at his watch. Papa’s life of leisure was pretty well over since he had been made president, CEO, and chief driver of Pescatore’s White Night Limousines. They had inherited two ancient Italian drivers who were good for taking people to and from the airport but not much else. Papa did the drives to Niagara Falls, weddings, celebrities, and stuff like that. Today, he had a run to pick up a guest at a downtown hotel and drive him to a jazz club in Buffalo.
    “So, you’re a Buddhist Jew?”
    “Yup.” I nodded in between slurps. “Good soup, Papa. You haven’t lost your touch with a can opener.”
    “High praise indeed.” He winked. “A Buddhist Jew, hmm. Just how orthodox do you intend to be?”
    Yes. Well. There were choices? I knew I should have paid closer attention to the Judaism, or the Religion of Israel section of the encyclopedia.
    “Are you going to keep kosher, for instance?”
    Aha! I knew about this bit. I was the Seder kid for the Kauffman family four schools back. Every Friday, I’d turn on and off their lights, their stove, and anything electrical. The Kauffmans also had two separate kitchens and even two sets of dishes. There also was something about dairy and lobsters that sprang to mind, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
    “Well, there might not be any more pork in my future, but I’m not sure about how kosher to take it. I don’t want to piss off the Buddhists.”
    Papa smiled.
    “I bet there’s like all sorts of kosher levels.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, but there’s orthodox, modern orthodox, conservative, and reform, and then within those there are …”
    “There, the last one, the reform one. That just sounds right.” Yup, I was adamant. “Reform it is.”
    “Wise choice.” Papa got up, cleared the table, and started washing the dishes. “Why Judaism at all, if I may ask?”
    “Well, thing is, Buddhists are so laid-back, which is exactly what I want, but then where do I go with the Sophieness part of me and so, presto, Jewishness!” Whoa, Papa was doing dishes? Was that AA or Auntie Eva? “I like being Jewish. It feels like me.”
    To his credit, he didn’t laugh.
    “Look, I know I don’t know much about either of them, but I’m going to learn and …”
    “Of course you are.” He kissed my forehead. “You surprise me every single day, Sophie Kandinsky.”
    I watched him finish drying. “You too, Papa.”
    “Well, my beautiful Buddhist-Jewish-Catholic, I’ve got to get back to the office and make some calls before