The Boy and I speak in the subjunctive.
Me: In our fictional future home, I’ll frum up and keep a kosher kitchen, you’ll frum down and agree to ‘ingredient kosher’ as opposed to ‘certified kosher.’
Boy: I couldn’t have a home where my family can’t eat. Someday we’ll have a third set of dishes, a trayf set, just for you. Although, I don’t know what the theoretical kids would potentially think…
Picturing a life where my hypothetical children laugh at me eating artisinal cheese and exotic vinegar, alone in the corner, on my second class dishes, I burst into tears.
Boy: What just happened? Why are you crying?
He thought trayf dishes revealed an open mind and willingness to compromise.
We quickly shelved the kosher conversation.
Recently, we had a revelation during brunch. In a beautiful UWS apartment, visiting friends with a gorgeous baby and newly remodeled kitchen, we ate on paper plates.
Boy: He’s Sephardi, he doesn’t own dairy dishes.
Me: He’s a BOY, he doesn’t own dairy dishes.
In New York, where kitchen space is at a premium, people have to choose sides. My Boy has no milchig kitchenware, save for two cereal bowls, into which he pours soy milk — old habits die hard. My girlfriends almost universally keep dairy kitchens. By default, so do I, though not out of religious conviction. Meat is expensive. I can get lowfat protein from dairy. Parve foods are lower on the food chain and healthier, for me and for the planet.
Girls are milchig, boys are fleishig.
With this reductive realization in hand, we saw the answer: our fictional future fleishig dishes would be hechsher-only kosher, the milchig side could be ingredient kosher. And never the twain shall meet. His family can come to Shabbos dinner, I can have truffle oil and stinky cheese.
We felt like total geniuses. A conversation about our future came off the shelf.