Over lunch today at the little round table by the window that serves as our dining space and which we refer to as "The Cafe," Mamela and I chewed on salads and engaged in one of those conversations that spirals off into unexpected paths. As a preface to this conversation, you should know that Mamela has a 14 year old son. He's a bright and loving kid, but also a source of worry, aggravation and pleasure to his proud mother. Our dialogue went something like this:

Me: How is your son doing in school this year?
Mamela: Metsa, metsa. He doesn't apply himself. Take a guess what he wants to be?
Me: You mean for his career?
Mamela: He wants to be a air force pilot.
Me: Well, that's exciting.
Mamela: Are you kidding? There are no Jewish fighter pilots because they all have Jewish mothers and no good Jewish mother would let her son get in one of those fakakta things.
Me: It's an ambitious goal. Maybe you should encourage him.
Mamela: I got enough of his mishegas. Maybe he should get of his tuchas and work harder on his science and math, no?
Me: I'd think you'd feel safer on a plane with a Jewish pilot!
Mamela: Oh, no. When I get on a plane and the pilot comes on to talk to us, I want to hear him say, "This is John Smith" not "This is Aaron Goldstein."
Me: You've got to be kidding.
Mamela: Oh, no. I want a pilot with one of those one syllable names, like Pete Burns, Tyler Jones--WASP names, goyem. Don't you listen to those announcements when the pilot says hello at the beginning of the flight?
Me: I never listen for the name. I just listen to their voice to make sure they're not inebriated.
Mamela: If I want a good lawyer, I know who to call. But I don't know that the macher who is such a good lawyer will be such a good pilot. No. His mother will be worried, he'll be worried, he won't keep his eyes on the road. It's not good.
Me: Maybe you son will be an excellent pilot.
Mamela: Yeah. He's a real chochem.