I Brake for Kugel

I texted MJ yesterday afternoon: Does the baby want kugel?

MJ replied: Hell to the yes!

Kugel, for those of you without Jewish friends, who live in the South, or who list The Olive Garden and Applebee’s as some of your favorite restaurants, is a noodle pudding. It’s similar to rice pudding or bread pudding because it is a starch baked in a sweet custard. It’s heavy on the cinnamon and dairy, and if you are so inclined, you can pollute it with raisins or dried fruit bits. Like most baked foods, it can be really good or really dried out and horrendous. A lot of goyim (Google it; for Chrissakes, you are reading this online!) don’t know what to do with the idea of sweet noodles, but really, it that any weirder than soaking old bread in eggs and milk and sugar?

MJ, who is not even a little Jewish, loves kugel. She is also pregnant, so obviously her unborn baby is going to love it too. My husband, who, like MJ, is not even a little Jewish, hates the stuff, and my girls and I don’t need to finish a whole batch of it alone. So it was MJ to the rescue, because she is happy for some Jewish leftovers.

I texted her back: Are you on the road? Can you swing by and pick it up?

MJ has to drive a lot for her job. A. Lot. She hasn’t complained to me yet about hemorrhoids, but I know it’s just a matter of time. She sits on her pregnant ass all day in the car. Even the baby is going to have piles (you don’t have to Google that one, just ask your grandmother).

MJ replied: On my way home from Charlotte.

We live between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.

I texted her back: Great, let me know when you get close.

She did, so I tidied up a bit so she couldn’t see that we live like pigs, which is ridiculous, because she know we live like pigs. My girls continued with their homework, and I kept one eye on the side door for MJ’s car.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was MJ.

I said: Hi, MJ.

MJ said: I’m not coming.

I said: What do you mean? What happened?

MJ said: I just fucking rear ended some Vietnamese chick on the exit ramp. Your exit ramp. She stopped dead still on the fucking exit ramp for NO FUCKING REASON.

I wrote that in capitals because MJ yelled that part.

I said: God, MJ, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to come down there? Have you called the cops? Did your air bag go off?

I really did ask a whole string of questions just like that.

MJ said: No, thank God. We are both okay, no injuries. The air bags didn’t even go off. She’s got my insurance information. She didn’t even want to move her car off the road!

I said: One of you should call the cops. Won’t she need a police report for her insurance?

MJ said: It’s barely a dent on her bumper. Jesus, I am going to implode. We are sitting here by Wendy’s and all I want to do is go home.

I let MJ do what she needed to do and got off the phone. I looked at my kids sitting there doing their homework and said to them, come on girls, get your shoes. We are going to take some kugel to MJ.

My oldest daughter, E, was very concerned about MJ, but I reassured her that everything was fine, she just had to wait for the cops to come to fill out a report. I cut a big piece of kugel and put it in a plastic container. Then I called MJ back.

I said: Are you waiting for the police?

MJ said: We never called the police. She called her FUCKING MOTHER!

MJ screamed that part.

I said: Is her mother a police officer?

MJ said: I should just leave. This is nuts. We have exchanged information. What do I need to stay for?

MJ agreed to call the insurance company instead of the cops. We got in the car with the kugel and drove to the Wendy’s. Her car was in the parking lot next to the car she hit. We pulled up on the other side of her. MJ was on the phone, looking fabulous as ever, with her tiny baby bump poking out of her dress. My kids ran over to her side of the car and handed her the container of kugel. We looked at the back of the car she hit, which had a dent in the bumper the size of a dime, or maybe a nickel, to err on the generous side, although dimes are worth more than nickels. MJ got out of her car and snapped a couple of pictures with her camera phone.

I said: Do you want me to stay?

MJ said: No, I’m fine, thanks. I guess we are about done here. Her insurance company didn’t need a police report.

I said: Well, make sure yours doesn’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?

MJ said: No, it’s all fine. Thank you so much for driving up here.

I said: It’s the least I could do. You had an accident driving here to pick up the kugel. I hope it is worth it.

MJ said: I know it will be. Thanks again!

We kissed MJ goodbye and I drove home, leaving MJ to finish up the business of an accident and then drive home cautiously so she could eat her noodle pudding, which sat in its container in the passenger seat feeling guilty, like a blood diamond. Such devastation, all for those sweet, creamy noodles, which in all honesty, you don’t get to eat every day.