The Shabbat morning kiddush food frenzy

HOWARD FELDMAN

True, there are still many who want to see us dead. The past few weeks have proven exactly that. But, given that we now reside in the frenetic and ADD-like millennial age, the chances are remote that our enemies will have the patience and staying power to watch us wither away slowly.

I have never been a fan of the shul kiddush (colloquially called the “brocha”) and generally find myself at home following that Shabbat morning service. It’s not because I don’t like people and or crowds. I just don’t like the mob mentality that takes over the community when faced with a limited amount of sushi.

I always fear that at any moment, I could become poor Simon in Lord of the Flies, with the whole group turning on me and beating me to death (or near death) just because I was rumoured to have been the beast (or glutton), or the one who finished the last piece of the cheesecake. And so, in order to avoid the danger, I either hang back and pretend I just don’t want anything, or go home to the safety of my home where CAP is just a panic button away.

After an absence of some years, I recently felt ready to venture back to a shul kiddush. I have done a lot of work on myself in the intervening years, written a few books on my journey of self-discovery. I have exorcised some of my more (or less) attractive demons. I finally felt ready to face the past, and embrace the future. I felt centred, confident, and contained. No sashimi could upset my equilibrium.

Or so I thought.

Nothing has changed. There is still the same heightened level of anxiety and panic (that might have been mine). Mothers of young children and mothers of old children remain the scariest as they forage for food for their sugar-high young‘uns. And talkers still stand in front of the fruit so that no one can access it without shoving them out the way. Cold drinks remain warm, and the polystyrene cups still produce a remarkable amount of foam when you try pour a Coke Zero. That is, if you are lucky enough for them not to overbalance just as the liquid meets the cup, spilling on the suit you have just received back from the dry-cleaners.

It’s still always hot. And uncomfortable. Everyone still looks at what you have filled your plate with to check what they might have missed. Or to judge you because given your recent weight gain, is four “rugelach” the wisest of choices? And there is always someone who wants to kiss you “good Shabbos” with a mouth full of chopped herring.

And I hate herring. Unless it’s Anne Cohen’s baked herring.

The ugly and beautiful truth is that few of us are at risk of malnutrition. We are thankfully very blessed (read: fat). In truth, if those anti-Semites who want to see the last of us were smart, they would consider sponsoring the croissants at the kiddush. You see, there is more likelihood that we will die from obesity than from starvation.

Either way, it is now more than 70 years after the Holocaust. We can’t afford to forget anything about the period. But we might want to consider suspending our food anxiety for a few hours on a Shabbat morning.