The things Jews endure

It's almost Hanukkah. And that pretty much explains why my husband, son, another boy and I were forced to stand in front of a microphone in a crowded church basement singing four verses of Ma'oz Tzur at an unbearably slow pace in an almost unobtainable key.

At the end of each verse I kept thinking, this will be over and then we can go home. But not before I stepped on a plate of barbecued meatballs a child left on the floor. And then, in an attempt to balance my slide, I put my other foot down in a plate of mashed potatoes and creamed corn.