HOME FOR SUPPER - When I was six years old, I noticed something very strange, at least it was for a six-year-old. Our next-door neighbors, the Carmichaels, were suddenly gone. Since they didn’t have any kids, this didn’t really bother me all that much. It did make me wonder, though. Why would anyone want to leave their home? It just didn’t make any sense. 

I knew they were gone because there were now strangers living in their house. Our new neighbors were the Steinbergs, and they were of much more interest to me. The reason? Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg had two kids. Why they only had two kids was almost as confusing as our old neighbors leaving their home. Being a good Catholic family, we were now up to nine kids and counting. 

Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg didn’t look that much younger than Mom and Dad, so I wondered why their turnout was so small. I spoke of this puzzle with some kids at school. They said that Jewish people didn’t believe in large families. Why was this? And what did they mean by “Jewish” people? No matter, once they’d settled in, I thought I’d try to get to the bottom of it.

One summer day, I noticed the younger of the two boys in their backyard. It was a great backyard, probably twice the size of ours. It’d been wasted for years by our newly vanished neighbors, since they hardly ever used it. Being a shy kid, I had to work up the nerve to talk to my new neighbor. I cautiously approached the barberry bushes, which lined the property's border.

“Hey,” I called out to the quiet kid. This was the same kid who would eventually become my best childhood friend. He slowly made his way towards me.

“Hi,” he replied suspiciously.

“I’m Joey. What’s your name?”

His name was Norman, a name I’d never heard of before. All of my brothers had normal names. They had saintly names like Joseph, Paul, and John. They had names everyone in the world had heard of. You know, regular names. Who’d ever heard of a Saint Norman? I later found out that Jewish people didn’t believe in saints, so why name their kids after one? 

We talked for a little while, and I found out his older brother’s name was Stephen. I laughed to myself that they’d accidentally named him after a saint after all. I then wondered what they’d do if they ever found out their mistake. Norman was a skinny, average-looking kid with short brown hair and a kind face. I was bigger in comparison, due to both my height and my appetite. My blonde hair was much shorter, thanks to a buzz cut from Dad. I squinted at him due to the sun and my nearsightedness. 

The more we talked, the more I decided that Jewish kids weren’t much different than Catholic kids. Except that they went to church on Saturdays and we went on Sundays. Oh, and they called their church “temple.” When I got around to asking him why his parents had so few kids, he countered by asking me why we had so many. Neither of us had a good answer.

As the weeks went by, we took turns playing in each other's yards. Even though I found out Norman was two years younger than me, it didn’t seem to matter. His mom was also average-looking, with a round face, surrounded by curly, light brown hair. She was always smiling and really nice to me. How else would I describe someone who kept offering me delicious snacks when I was over at their house? I spent as much time at Norman’s house as I could. His dad, however, was nothing like his mom. 

It wasn’t that Mr. Steinberg was mean, but I guess he was like most dads, kind of gruff, scary, and without a sense of humor. I didn’t see him very much during the week because, like our dad, he spent all day at work. Unlike our dad, he seemed to walk to work each day. I’d sometimes see him on school days, dressed in a suit, carrying his book bag, while walking down the block. He’d then disappear around the corner. I found out from Norman that his dad took a bus to work, just like I did to go to school. I wasn’t sure I believed him. 

Sometimes I’d see his dad on the weekends in their backyard, but he rarely spoke to me. Late one Saturday afternoon, Norman and I were playing in his yard, trying on a wide variety of poly noses. Mrs. Steinberg opened the back door and called for him to come in and wash up for dinner. That’s another thing I noticed. Jewish people called it dinner, while Catholics called it supper, just like Jesus.

Our supper was not for a while, so I kept myself busy in our backyard. I threw a ball against the brick wall at the back of the house. The sound of rubber echoed throughout the yard, but I slowly became distracted. 

“What’s that smell?” I wondered hungrily.

It was somewhat familiar, but not quite. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious.

I stopped tossing the ball and listened to a sizzling sound coming from my new neighbor’s yard. It was the same place that the mouthwatering smell was coming from. Standing only a few yards away was Mr. Steinberg. He leaned over a black covered gas grill, which I didn’t know existed until then, since our dad always grilled over charcoal. He held a pair of metal food grabbers in one hand and a big empty plate in the other. I stared at the fiery grill with my mouth hanging open. Then, he turned and looked directly at me, saying in a gravelly voice, 

“Hey, Joey!”

I was both curious and afraid, not knowing what to say or expect.

“Hey, Joey,” he repeated a little louder. 

I didn’t even know he knew my name.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Was I hungry? I was always hungry. That was one of the reasons for my chubby predicament. 

“Do you want a hot dog?” he asked.

He was grilling hot dogs? The aroma of these hot dogs was certainly not like anything I had smelled before. They smelled G-O-O-D.

“Okay,” I replied sheepishly.

I hopped over the barberry bushes and approached him cautiously, just in case it was some kind of trick. He skillfully snatched a hot dog with his grabbers and placed it onto the hot dog roll before handing it to me. I took a bite.

It was delicious! 

I liked hot dogs, but ours didn’t taste anything like his. His were juicier and tasted different than ours. His had … flavor. It was at that moment that I knew Jewish hot dogs were much better than Catholic ones. 

I must’ve eaten that hot dog in less than a minute; it was that good. Seeing that I was finished, Mr. Steinberg offered me another. I greedily accepted his second present and gobbled it down, much to his delight. He chuckled, then asked,

“Do you want another one?”

I stood motionless, thinking about his question for a good long time. Finally, I gave him my answer,

“I really would, but… I probably should go home for supper!”

Based on his uncontrollable laughter, Mr. Steinberg must’ve thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Maybe it was because I was only six years old that I didn’t get the joke. 

Maybe someday, I would.