Free Odyssey In A Teacup by Paula Houseman Page B

the Israeli circle dance. After a rambunctious ten minutes of this, in keeping with tradition, the bride and groom were to be uplifted on separate chairs. They would hold the opposite corners of a handkerchief to connect them symbolically as guests danced around them. Four men effortlessly lifted Neville’s chair, but there were no takers for Zelda. Awkward.
    At last, a number of burly blokes grudgingly stepped forward. They stood looking around for more recruits. One of them called Ralph over. Ralph predictably feigned a backache, but another two brave men volunteered. All eyes were fixed on these daredevils (or idiots) as, with shirts stuck to their sweaty bodies, grunting, heaving, deltoids straining, clavicles at risk of snapping, they looked as if they were about to pop a blood vessel as they successfully hefted Humpty up. Applause broke out. If the Clean and Jerk was a team effort in the Olympic weightlifting events and this was an entry, it would have racked up a bronze at the very least.
    With bride and groom now back on the ground and the dance bracket over, we all returned to our tables. The meal was served on ornate Wedgwood (Miri and Isaac had spared no expense). Gazpacho entrée was followed by another dance bracket, which was followed by the main meal of Fish à la Meunière, Duchess Potatoes, Carrots Vichy, and green beans. Bowls of Waldorf salad, French salad, and a basket of white bread rolls were placed in the centre of each table. Conversation and the clanking of cutlery drowned out the soft dinner music playing in the background. But there was no dialogue at our table because these behemoths were too into their food. It was scary, yet fascinating to watch them eat. A bunch of opportunistic omnivores, they gorged, guzzled and gobbled.
    Ralph leaned over and whispered, ‘I feel like I’m in the middle of a Roman food orgy with players who’ve never ever seen the inside of the vomitorium.’
    ‘Unlike Monique?’
    Ralph smiled at me. He was about to answer but got distracted. One of the players was noisily mopping up every visible streak of sauce on his plate with military precision and a bread sponge. Ralph couldn’t resist a jibe:
    ‘You might want to leave the pattern on your plate. Wedgwood isn’t cheap, you know. Costs an arm and a leg.’
    Ralph had eclectic taste where his reading material was concerned. That would be the only way he’d know Wedgwood is pricey. I so admired his ability to bounce back, though, and to make light of an uncomfortable situation. I laughed at his comment, but stopped short as they all downed cutlery and glared at us. Had we spoiled their appetites? Did Pinocchio have wooden balls? Yes ... but not for long! They resumed their scoffing. I winced as one of them asked for my scant leftovers, but I handed him my plate because I felt so guilty for having ugly, judgemental thoughts. The tables were then cleared and the formalities were about to start.
    My father had a special connection with Zelda, so she had asked him to make a speech. The emcee, a friend of Neville’s, took his place at the podium and Joe hovered around it, waiting for his cue. Parents quickly collected their young children, who had been running around on the dance floor. Mary walked past the podium with her three-year-old son, Jason. Joe, who was never one to waste an opportunity, beckoned the munchkin over. Next thing, Jason had hold of and was tugging at the old man’s index finger. Jason laughed hysterically. And anyone who knew Joe expected nothing less ... or nothing more.
    When a family member has a special aptitude, it becomes a kind of fulcrum and life revolves around that person’s activities: a champion swimmer—training schedules; a gifted violinist—special classes; an actress mother—taking her family on location. In our family, Joe had a special aptitude for farting. And he was renowned for it in the Jewish community. There were whispers: Psst, did you hear what Joe Roth did during