Tossing the empties, hiding the evidence
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When I maybe 12 years old, I talked Donald, the sometimes-shaven caretaker at the synagogue my family attended, to let me take home the leftover challah after Saturday services. It was just a few slices, but they was free, and I wouldn’t have to share them with anyone.
Are you sure it’s OK with your folks, Donald would ask, and of course, I’d assure him it was, just as assuredly that it was not.
I don’t remember how many times he gave me the leftovers, but I remember why he stopped: My mother found a crumb-filled bag under my bed, and the jig was up.
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