When people think of superheroes, they typically don’t think of their friend Stacey Gold who could afford to lose those ten pounds she’s always talking about, Avi Friedman who sneezes more than he talks about the Knicks (and trust he talks about the Knicks a lot) or Grandma Pearl who is always cooking, doesn’t want help, but does want you to want to help or, at the very least, sit at the Formica kitchen table with Popop playing gin rummy to keep her company. In other words, people don’t think of their fat, whiney, nasal, hairy, whatever Jewish friends or, as applicable, relatives. But, rest assured, this faith comprises the world’s only living superheroes.

They say that people who lack one sense make up for it with the others. For instance, that blind boy who somehow bags your groceries at Kroger just might be able to smell that grape you’re “sampling” across the store and hear your chomping (even through your mostly closed mouth). If that’s the case, the years of our great people’s suffering have paid off big time. That’s because we, as Jews, have heightened senses, and it’s marvelous.

If you are thinking that last statement – that Jews have heightened senses – is overly broad, you’re right. It most definitely needs dissection. The senses of the Jewry can be broken down into two categories: (1) the ones we got and (2) the ones we are losing.

So, “we got” smelling. We’re not bloodhounds, and our expertise is not picking out different smells; you’ll never hear a tribesman (as in member of, as in a Jew) say “someone is drinking pomegranate tea over there” or “who’s eating vanilla pudding”. However, and it is a big “however”, we are experts at spotting good and bad smells. And, we will tell you. And tell you. And tell you. Until you agree and either do something about it or leave the room with us. (Granted, there are some bad smells we tolerate – for instance the smell of grease that fogs the house every December come latka-making time – though we still will complain about it.) Save a few specific examples, we simply cannot tolerate bad smells. That said, we love, simply adore, and obsess over good smells. All of a sudden a tribesman becomes Encyclopedia Brown in The Case of the Delicious Smell on the hunt to find the source. It might be a babka in a white bakery box complete with red and white bakery string. It might even be you. (Probably not – it’s rarely people.) Or, it might be that capon (google it) Grandma Pearl is cooking in a new glaze. And we’ll inquire about it. And inquire. And inquire. Until you tell us what it is or give a taste, which is the perfect segue into the next sense “we got”: taste!

Jews know food. It’s one of the biggest shames in this world that we aren’t better represented on the Food Network. If the middle of the country welcomed Seinfeld into their homes, surely they are ready for Grandma Pearl to be The Next Food Network’s Star! Popop can chime in with ideas, suggestions, stories and the like, all of which will be ignored promptly without so much as an eye roll. When we eat something tasty, we love it. We talk about it. We eat more of it. And more of it. And more of it. Until none is left, at which point we demand the recipe. (Although, it is quite unlikely to have to demand a recipe, since it most likely was either orally recited at the start of the meal or else disclosed as Tami Goldwasser’s as printed in the Glen Cove, NY chapter of Hadassah’s 1990 Ladle of Love Cookbook – the sales of which were a tremendous success by all accounts, raising a few thousand dollars that Bernie Madoff would someday squander.) When we eat something bad, however, forget it. Actually, don’t forget it. Be reminded of it. And if you struggle to be reminded of it, just look at our plates, because there it is. Partially chewed, clumped and hiding not-so-discretely behind a pile of hopefully edible mashed potatoes (because how could you have messed those up too).

Temperature sensitivity is last sense “we got”. There is no Baby Bear (as in, Goldilocks and the Three Bears) for Jews when it comes to temperature: it’s either too hot or too cold. Leave the “just right” for the gentiles and their Bloody Marys. (Note: the author is incredibly uncomfortable as he is typing this; it’s unseasonably hot, and air conditioning is not an option, thank you, as he possess another common Jewish trait.) Come December when tribesmen descend on the Caribbean, we are disgusted by the heat and humidity. And, when it becomes “ridiculous”, we retire to our too cold hotel rooms, put on more sweats than a fat wrestler trying to cut weight, get under all the blankets (including the top one with the ugly pattern that your cousin Michelle, who knows, told you to never even touch), and take in an episode or two of Law & Order. (Incidentally, RIP Jerry Orbach. You are missed.) Look, when we’re hot, we’re hot, and when we’re cold, we’re freezing. People think that the profile is the easiest way to tell a Jew from a gentile. The Jew is the guy who left that puddle of sweat on his subway seat in the spring or the guy wearing a down ski jacket shaking like an electrocuted Chihuahua in the fall.

Then there are the senses “we are losing”. Namely, hearing and eyesight. In the interest of full disclosure, however, much of this is selective loss.

If Toby Maguire’s Spiderman taught us one thing it was that with great power comes great responsibility. Certainly, Jews have been bestowed with great powers. Don’t worry for our safety, though, we’re not vigilante crime fighters. Who are you kidding? These powers were not meant for fighting crime. No, they’re meant for a higher purpose. A more noble purpose. A more traditional purpose. In fact, a more obvious purpose: kvetching (google it).