Bubba-mon, the kids, and I live in Meyerland, a Houston community just “outside the loop (610).”  Traditionally, Meyerland has been a Jewish neighborhood.  We are neither traditional nor Jewish.  And Bubba-mon thinks he is redneck.  Oops.

When we bought our house, the couple selling to us offered to walk us to synagogue.  We didn’t have the heart to tell them we were Christian.  When all the blue and white lights go up in December, we are the only ones with a flashing multi-color Merry Christmas sign in the window and a giant blow-up Baby Jesus nativity scene in the yard.

I adore our neighborhood.  And I also feel guilt twinges now and then for displacing a potential Jewish family from such a welcoming environment, which I know is irrational.  I specialize in that, according to Bubba-mon.

So we belong to the Jewish Community Center, and we occasionally eat at restaurants — usually by accident — that are kosher.  Most of my kids’ middle school buddies are Jewish.  I’m starting to talk with a Brooklyn accent.

We ate at a Mexican restaurant in Meyerland recently.  We showed up at 5:30, on the tail end of senior citizen’s hour.  I snapped this picture of the roving Mariachis in the restaurant.  I clicked too slowly to catch the doddering old gentleman in the yarmulke dancing to their music.

Can you play Hava Nagila?

Rednecks, rabbis and mariachis.  Only in our neighborhood.  Meyerland rocks.

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