A Purim story: the funny thing about being Jewish.

I suppose it is a sign of just how poor a Jew I am that when I got a letter from the Jewish Museum last February asking me to be the Purimspieler at its Purim Ball I thought there must be some kind of mistake. I don't mean that I thought there must be some mistake in asking me. I am enough of a ham that I would not be surprised if a Hindu congregation asked me to come forward and recite choice selections from the Bhagavad Gita. I mean that I was surprised because I thought the Jewish Museum was making a mistake about the date of Purim.

"Isn't that the one in the fall?" I asked my wife, Martha. "With the hamantaschen? And the little hut in the back yard?"

"No," she said. "No, it isn't. They have hamantaschen all year round. Even I know that."

"The thing that puzzles me," I went on, holding up the letter and reading it again, "is how they ever figured out I was Jewish."

She executed what I believe our fathers would have called a spit take. "That is the most ridiculous question I've ever heard. There's your name, for one thing, and then the way you use Jewish words in writing."

"What Jewish words have I ever used in writing?"

She thought for a moment. "Well, 'shvitz.' And 'inchoate.' "