A particularly pinkish pork chop tonight prompted me to accuse the InstaPrincess of attempted mariticide by trichinosis, which then found me declaring I was now Jewish as self-defense against any future pork chop aggression (or meals), at which point our four year-old piped up with a “What’s ‘Jewish’?”

Right. So, in a rather stunning metaphysical coup, we explained how some people believed in a god, how some people are Jewish, some are Christian, some go to church, some hang out in a synagogue and some, still, are us—who have no religion—which is just dandy because we can sleep in on Saturdays AND Sundays, and our Wednesday night dance cards are almost always open.

“Do you understand?” Of course he did. We can explain anything to him as long as we pepper the talk with enough examples of super heroes.

“Yes.”

We grinned. Bright kid. Our genes, though, so why not?

“I’m Jewish.”

Damn.

“Because Grandma took me to [an African Methodist Episcopal] church once.”

See? We can teach ANYTHING.