My Easy Fast

My timing was a bit off yesterday. I arrived at the bakery just as congregants from morning Yom Kippur services were spilling out of sanctuaries. Risky business, twenty hours into the annual fast.

The bakery, an inviting pink storefront tucked into a primarily Mexican neighborhood nestled between kitten heeled gentiles to the north and equally well-heeled but noticeably different Jews to the south, is nondenominational. No matter what the holiday, the delicacies are the same. There is no need for cross shaped cakes or elaborate icing designs depicting the destruction of the first temple. It's all about the sugar. And the butter. 

I felt slightly conspicuous, sweaty from my bike ride (my idea of a a spiritual journey), the clips on my bike shoes echoing against the tile floor. The small space was packed with "good" Jews, dressed to the nines, the ones who have made it to the afternoon without so much as a sip of coffee. I tried to make myself inconspicuous.

The good Jews have their own problems. Even the leaden matzoh balls have been digested, and crankiness has set in with a vengeance. A young woman came in with her parents. Her face had a rosy glow, but something told me it had little to do with that warm, fuzzy introspective feeling you get from a good sermon. For a few moments, she did her best to contain her belligerence. 

"Do you want something for later, mom?" She appeared to be salivating, but that would be natural, standing in a bakery at the tail end of a fast.

"Surprise me!" Well if mom was cranky, she showed no signs. A nice sense of adventure, although I'm not sure how surprising anything would be since she was right there and her eyes were open. 

"I am NOT surprising you. Just pick what you want!" I was wrong about the daughter. She wasn't salivating; she appeared to be foaming at the mouth. Whatever impact the sermon might have had, it had been digested and expelled with the matzoh balls. Give that woman a cookie, I thought, before she loses all hope of redemption. 

My friend told me later about his rabbi's sermon, all about overcoming hate on a grand scale with love at home. A grass roots campaign for kindness and acceptance and generosity and all that good stuff that seems lacking in the world, if you believe what you read in the paper. It makes so much sense, even on an empty stomach, but who am I to judge. I am fifty-five years old, and I no longer even attempt to fast, for fear of becoming homicidal, or, as my daughter says, "hangry." 

I am sure the good Jews made it to sundown without sneaking even a fingerful of cupcake frosting out of their neatly tied box, and I like to think they made it to sundown without killing each other. And maybe, after a few forkfuls of white fish salad and a glass of wine, they reflected on how lucky they are to have each other and to live close to the little pink bakery where you can find the sweetest treats, no matter what the occasion. 

My bike ride had left me depleted, but not cranky the way I would have been had I not eaten. I suppose you can say I cheated, having enjoyed a picture perfect day even before I dove into the white fish salad. I got the Reader's Digest version of a good sermon without having to sit through it, and I was well fortified with caffeine and food and sunshine infused Vitamin D. 

And the salted caramel treasure from the little pink bakery? Icing on the cake.