Crushing the chuppah
I found what I thought might be the perfect light romance novel — consisting of baking (bread, not cakes!), fisherfolk, odd Americans, and idle musings on whether a ramshackle seaside town should gentrify or remain rundown. Then there was a slight hiccough when one of the Americans said "don't be daft" to another — not an Americanism, surely? And finally, towards the end of the book, there was the crushing moment. A Jewish wedding where they, apparently, crushed the chuppah.
Now, I'm not fabulously knowledgeable about various Jewish traditions. I was pretty certain that a chuppah was a sort of awning erected over the marrying couple, and that it's a glass that gets crushed. But I made a quick search to check, and found no evidence of chuppah-crushing. So it seems the author made a medium-sized error, and no one ironed it out afterwards. What a pity. My perfect novel tainted forever.
Or was it? It gave me a good, superior sort of feeling. I had a good chuckle about it with my husband. It gave me an enjoyable tale to tell. Perhaps these semi-hidden imperfections are the crowninig of an otherwise solid piece of work!