Anzu reaches out a languid hand, offering Cecil the option of a handclasp, something to hold on to. His expression is gentle, but internally, he's kicking himself for not being even a little more considerate—the rabbi's son, and grandson, and great-grandson, with good yikhus coming out of his nose, he who was so lucky to grow up with little fear of persecution, at least until he was eleven, and to grow up with no fear of assimilation, nor fear of abandonment.
Of all people, he should be mindful not to lord such things over others.
"Dearest," he says, softly, "thou need'st not explain, but ah … please, sweetness, blame thyself not." He takes a deep breath, considers telling Cecil about his own disconnection, of his own making, too—and decides to burden not the other man with such matters; there'll be time.
Instead, he smiles at Cecil, and says, "mine husband says that no one is too old to learn Torah. And in any case, he certainly spoke highly of thy reasoning and thine attitude both. Anyone can memorise psakim. Interpretation and application, such are the things more valuable, and much harder."
He leans back, flicking his hand at the wrist rhythmically; he rocks back and forth just a little, though not quite as prominently as during prayer.
"In any case, darling," he continues, breezily, "the matter of the palm tree. Halakhically, it is a grass, and bananas require the blessing of fruits of the earth. Theoretically. I do not eat bananas. Feh. Might as well eat a sponge. But, ah. It seems like an analogous case to the peanut, nu?"
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Anzu reaches out a languid hand, offering Cecil the option of a handclasp, something to hold on to. His expression is gentle, but internally, he's kicking himself for not being even a little more considerate—the rabbi's son, and grandson, and great-grandson, with good yikhus coming out of his nose, he who was so lucky to grow up with little fear of persecution, at least until he was eleven, and to grow up with no fear of assimilation, nor fear of abandonment.
Of all people, he should be mindful not to lord such things over others.
"Dearest," he says, softly, "thou need'st not explain, but ah … please, sweetness, blame thyself not." He takes a deep breath, considers telling Cecil about his own disconnection, of his own making, too—and decides to burden not the other man with such matters; there'll be time.
Instead, he smiles at Cecil, and says, "mine husband says that no one is too old to learn Torah. And in any case, he certainly spoke highly of thy reasoning and thine attitude both. Anyone can memorise psakim. Interpretation and application, such are the things more valuable, and much harder."
He leans back, flicking his hand at the wrist rhythmically; he rocks back and forth just a little, though not quite as prominently as during prayer.
"In any case, darling," he continues, breezily, "the matter of the palm tree. Halakhically, it is a grass, and bananas require the blessing of fruits of the earth. Theoretically. I do not eat bananas. Feh. Might as well eat a sponge. But, ah. It seems like an analogous case to the peanut, nu?"