Fast and Furious

When my two older children were young, I used to tell them if I didn't have my morning coffee, I would turn into a bear. Terrified by the thought, they took no chances, and, at a very tender age, kept a safe distance until I took a few gulps.

Every year, on Yom Kippur, I promise myself I will try to fast (a promise as illusory as the one we made on our wedding day), but never, in all the years, have I even considered passing up my morning coffee. The way I see it, the sins I might commit as a result of being deprived of my daily brew would make any kind of atonement impossible, which would kind of defeat the purpose of the whole fasting thing.

Frankly, I wasn't raised to fast. (Yes, I was raised to believe you can never be too rich or too thin, but starving oneself for one day for religious purposes was a completely separate issue.) The truth is my family used to rise from the temple pew at about one, walk home (real Jews don't drive on Yom Kippur), and feast. Feast, fast -- the words are so close, so easily confused. But make no mistake -- we feasted on matzoh ball soup and challah and brisket and kugel. It don't get any more Jewish than that. And, let me tell you, we'd do penance for eating all that crap later.

Today, I will spend some time reflecting, even though I won't be all dressed up and sitting in an official house of worship. It's an unseasonably warm fall day, and I will probably take my nerve shattering road bike for one last spin before putting it to rest until next spring. I will spend time with my daughters and connect, somehow, with my other family members in New York -- probably after they finish the official holiday lunch.

And when I attend the "break fast" at my good friends' home this evening, I will politely hang back from the tantalizing spread until the true fasters get their fill. (As long as I've had my morning coffee, nobody will get hurt.) My guess is there'll be plenty of kugel left for the heathens.