My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, had a few erudite questions about the Christmas holiday, which I attempted to answer with the aplomb befitting a father who is also a daydreamer and pantheist.
"What's the deal with Christ?" Amy asked aggressively, "I don't get his whole thing," she mooed in the Boston drawl of her mother's side. "If he was so great, why'd they hang him up?"
"Well, dear," I hesitated, "Some people don't like it when you tell it like it is."
"If it's Jesus' birthday, how come we don't get him a present?" she asked.
"I think that's a splendid idea," waiting to suggest some charitable endeavor. Amy had other ideas.
"Let's go to the mall and get Jesus a Cinnabon."
"But Jesus died on the cross, Amy, and that has a way of killing one's appetite," I said, with the pithiness of a lifelong wisecracking mercenary. Amy laughed, "Okay, if he doesn't want it, I'll eat it."
At times, I wonder if Amy's past life was lived in Vaudeville.
"You can try your theory with some celery sticks and almonds," I trumped.
"What if he prefers candy?" she retorted. You know Christ has to be into dark chocolate." She had a point, and knew that I would accept nearly any excuse to get some See's candy to test her theosophical presumptions.
On the way back from the mall, with a mouthful of raspberry truffle, Amy bleated, "Chocolate is definitely Jewish." Her complex labeling was again not only food related but ethnically titillating. "How do you figure?" I honked.
"I'm going to have to work on my theory," she said, reaching for the box with a grin.
Amy was careful not to get chocolate on the new coat I bought her for Hanukkah. Yes, I know, she's big for six.
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