Tough couple of days. My Jewish world mandates two fasts that I observe. Yom Kippur in the fall serves as a climax of the calendar. People gather in large numbers to plod through the designated Machzor. Hundreds of pages get recited. We hear a male choir, expert prayer leaders, Memorial for the Departed, finally reaching the very end when everyone can resume eating. Despite the thirst more than hunger, I find the Holy Day and its requirements engaging. By the shofar's sound marking the conclusion and a nibbble set up by the synagogue's Sisterhood, people seem satisfied with their accomplishments.
Tisha B'Av, which occurs in mid-summer, also has a fast which I do my best to observe. I do not find the day particularly engaging, though synagogues and organizations try to make the observance meaningful. There is some liturgy specific to this day. While YK is more programmed, Tisha B'Av seem's more an Insider's Job with just a handful of invited participants, a sameness with a more difficult fast. In my working years, I had to conduct my usual professional activities, with the food deprivation detracting from performance, or at least I thought it did. In more recent years, I stay home, read a few things or watch fragments of video presentations about the lengthy history of Jewish tragedies, but mostly suffer through the fast until the end. Due to the calendar, breaking this fast occurs close to bedtime, which means eating when I would normally have finished my calories for the day. Physically I feel sore, sufficiently famished to make mental activities underperform, and anticipating some carryover to the following day or two.
And that's what happened. It was not a total punt of a day. I slogged through a few valued initiatives. Reduced exercise but not zero exercise. Read most of the things I us.ually read each day, though attention and ability to retain and respond clearly impaired. I took my scheduled medicines without water. The higher efforts, though, clearly needed to be postponed to a time of restored capabilities.
My reset day has arrived. This being a recovery day from my treadmill schedule, I opted to treat myself to breakfast out during the time I would be walking at the machine's pace. Not easy. Sleep disrupted but I forced myself out of bed as at the clock radio music appeared. Dental hygiene. Then downstairs for what has become my daily starting mug of water, skipped the day before due to the fast. The cafe would supply the coffee that usually follows. Quick chores: empty the recycling into the bins awaiting pickup later that morning. Add some trash to another bin. Water a plant. Retrieve the newspaper from the end of the driveway for my wife's convenience. Go out or pop a keurig pod into the Mini-Express? I put on the same shirt and pants I had worn the day before, different shoes, and returned to the car for my treat away from home, still struggling with even those minimal efforts.
I chose old reliable nearby cafe. When I eat there alone, I take a seat at the counter, usually the farthest from the entrance. To the restaurant's credit, they generate enough favorable morning experiences to attract a lot of patrons most mornings that I've been there. I had to settle for the stool nearest the entrance, which at least spared me having the Trump advocacy emblem in my line of sight.
This being a family enterprise, the owners or relatives greet me. It has an open kitchen where the cooks all seem to be Latinos, a capable kitchen staff. The servers got new T-shirts. Cafe Logo in the front, "I stand for the national anthem" in block letters on the back. I do too, being rather grateful to the opportunities that America has created for me, but we likely differ on our obligation to acknowledge and remedy some of the untoward parts of our national history.
I still had not consumed any coffee for the previous 48 hours. A man in a black version of cafe T-shirt, an older fellow, came over to my stool, confired that I wanted to eat at the counter, then brought me sizable mug of coffee with pods of half & half and synthetic French vanilla creamer in a small bowl. He handed me their standard menu, where I picked out the vegetarian options and sorted out how much I was willing to spend. He brought over a set of utensils wrapped in a napkin, along with a placemat. I turned the placemat over from its advertising side to its blank side, then took out a pen from my pants pocket. I had writing initiatives intended for the day if my mental acuity recovered sufficiently. I jotted a few thoughts, not many, but topics that could be expanded. The woman serving the customers came over next to take my food order. I pointed to my preference. She noted that I had come during their special hours so I could get the same thing for a dollar less. I selected my eggs preference and rye toast. She took away the menu, while I sipped coffe and struggled to convey the contents of my brain to the blank reverse side of their placemat. I made little progress, but could tell that caffeine deprivation had started to ease. She returned with my platter, which contained scrambled eggs instead of the over medium from the order. She noticed this error before me and offered immediately to have the kitchen make a new platter. Scrambled eggs would be fine. I squeezed some ketchup in a broad ribbon along the edge of the home fries, something this cafe makes better than any other local place I've sampled. Then the toast came, already buttered, though with additional spreads to apply myself, which I did not. and a refill of coffee.
Eggs with runny yolks as intended would have been preferable, but I thought it better to accept their busy day with its snafus. I took my time. Some hot sauce would have added to the experience but I neglected to ask for this with the coffee refill. She brought the check while I was still nearing the end of my plate. I opted to pay cash, as they discount this. Between my wallet and coin purse, I found four one-dollar bills to leave as a tip. Then at the cash register I handed her a twenty, which got me just over $9 in change. Replenishing my wallet's small bills would come in useful. I drove home, this time exiting quickly from what is often a difficult left turn from their parking lot to the road.
The morning's experiences had transitioned me successfully through a few important branch points. After a physically and mentally tough day with sleep disturbance and not much residual hunger, I really did not want to arise on time. Still, I did. Restoring a part of my morning routine, that cup of water, retrieving the newspaper, dental care, morning pills all fell into place. No excuses to skip any of them. I did not want to get dressed and drive off. Coffee at home would be fine. But I had set this AM breakfast out as the transition from a day of fast to quiet time to think while eating something more nutritionally substantial than my usual coffee. Despite not really wanting to go out, I put on the easiest clothes and headed off.
Once there, challenged by my inability to create on the back of their placemat, a food order delivered in error, looking at two dog whistle T-shirts from people who likely have a different worldview than me, I kept myself maximally gracious, as did the two servers with me. They served me promptly, offered immediately to correct errors, offered to save me a little money without my asking. I can stand for the anthem with them, as I should, then we each cast our ballots in secret. Will they turn in their Latino cooks when ICE agents take off their masks to eat what they have ordered? Hope not. Think not. And maybe the patrons won't let them. The cooks, order error aside, demonstrated their worthiness in the cafe's kitchen.
Being gracious has not always been my default. I have to work on it sometimes. Today, when opportunities might make antagonism defensible, I stayed accommodating. The day should go better from that starting point.
