I never felt more Jewish when I was exhausted in the kitchen

I’m technically Jewish because my father’s parents were Jewish, but on my mom’s side (according to followers of matrilineal lineage, that “important” people), things started to get weird; my maternal grandmother was born to a Russian-Jewish father and a non-Jewish Italian mother, and grew up in a Catholic orphanage after both parents died. She largely passed away as a pagan for most of her life, even marrying a textbook white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Growing up, my mom was closer to the WASP side in her upbringing, and my atheist dad still made the occasional “Oy vey is mir ” fly. Every Yom Kippur, we go to the house of our closest family and friends to break a fast that wasn’t actually maintained the day before, and I’m always in awe of the delicious food that covers every available surface.

I used to be a little bit unhappy with the idea that I was under-judaism, but these days, I’m starting to embrace the idea that I don’t have to be four – Jewish percent grandparents in order to make Judaism- And spirituality more generally – has a place in my life. Lately, like many Jews before me, I’ve been doing this with food. When I moved to Austin last September, I left most of the Jewish community in New York, but on this Yom Kippur, I am determined to break the fast with my friends, even if they are not Jewish. (Actually, it would be better if they weren’t Jewish; I know what it means to me when friends include me in their religious or cultural celebrations, there’s really nothing better than introducing someone What’s more fun to give their first kugel?)