WHERE YA GONNA BREAKDUFAST?

Whatever American Jews are lacking in religiosity, they make up in their obsession with food:

Take my friend Jack, who ordered a sandwich in a treife restaurant during Pesach, but insisted that it be served on matzo, because “my momma made me swear that I would never eat bread on Pesach.”

Then there was my boss Lew, who served a huge ham at their “Holy Day Dinner,” never God forbid referring to it as “Rosh Hashanah.”

Not to be outdone, my girlfriend Ellen served crabmeat appetizer on Rosh Hashanah, because it was “an old family tradition.”

Then, how many hausfrauen in the American southeast would make their matzo balls with cornmeal grits and jalapeño peppers, special treats from that region?

And, what of Shabbos chicken breaded in Fruit Loops?

Strangest may be our preoccupation with "breakdufast” (pronounced as one long word, not “break-the-fast”), the repast served at the conclusion of Yom Kippur.

Gentiles may assume that we prepare for the holiest day of the year with confession, penitence, and doleful prayer, but we know that we are really planning our breakthefast menu: a bacchanalian of lox, bagels, herring, cheeses, blintzes, and the ubiquitous tuna salad.

There have been years that I have had to make rabbinical guest appearances at no less than four breakthefasts, like Eliyahu Ha-Navi, and told each hausfrau that her gefilte fish was “absolutely the best.”

Please, don’t get me wrong. Breakthefasts are wonderful opportunities for fellowship and relaxation. Ones hosted in schule are even better. But, they are also the perfect venue for ruthless critique the sermons, catty comments on the women’s couture, and summary gossip about anyone and anything.

Breakthefast was obviously conceived by Kafka: It’s the first opportunity of the New Year to start racking up next year’s “Al Chet’s” – covetousness, slander, gluttony, arrogance, and all the other reasons to clop one’s breast. No sense calling off next Yom Kippur.

Now go fill the mikveh with hot coffee, so I can breakthefast gossiping along with you about Mrs. Yifnef’s ridiculous hat. Then sing me a couple bars of Ashamnu, and I’ll know that the New Year has really begun.