I was raised as a Conservative Jew, tilting heavily towards Orthodox. My father observed the laws of the Torah and my mother kept a kosher home which included having separate sets of dishes and silverware for dairy and meat products. In addition, shellfish, pork and certain cuts of beef were forbidden.
With this in mind, when I went off to college my greatest goal was not to obtain a BA, or an MRS degree like so many of my friends wanted. My goal was to taste bacon.
You should understand that I had always been a very good girl, doing exactly what was expected of me and never creating teenage waves of rebellion. But now, away from home for the first time in my life, I wanted to break bad. How better to do that than by eating bacon? I longed for it. The aroma had wafted through my nostrils many times at friend’s homes, and I couldn’t help wonder how anything that smelled so wonderful could possibly be bad.
I had only been at college one day when I accepted a lunch date with a very handsome young man I’d met during registration. We went to a restaurant called The Carousal. The center of the restaurant, a huge, slowly rotating floor, was decorated like a merry-go-round.
I’d planned on casually ordering a bacon, lettuce, and tomato on white toast. Even the bread was a kind of rebellion. Jews don’t eat white bread. If it’s not a heavy Russian or Jewish rye it’s not worth the calories.
Who would know? I was away from home. I was independent. I was with a very attractive stranger.
When the waitress came to our table I acted like a worldly woman who had done this hundreds of times before. “I’d like a BLT on white toast, please.” I’d always wanted to say that.
Sandy, my date, ordered tuna on rye.
When my food arrived I could barely contain myself. I bit into the sandwich and it was all I had hoped for. I wondered if I looked different. Could people tell that I’d just crossed the line and taken my virgin bite of traif -- non kosher food? I waited for a sign that what I’d done was okay -- either that or a bolt of lightening.
As I pondered the enormity of the act my date smiled and watched me eat. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” he questioned.
“Yes. Why?” Oh my God. I’ve been caught. Oh my God. “No reason. I thought I saw a Star of David on your neck yesterday.”
By now the combination of guilt, shame, and the realization of what I’d done, had set in. I had swallowed a piece of loathsome, disgusting, filthy, cloven hoofed, fried pig! That, plus the rotating floor caused me to, in one swift motion, put down my sandwich, excuse myself, and bound towards the edge of the spinning floor, all the while cupping my hand over my mouth. I prayed to God that I wouldn’t humiliate myself by throwing up. Then I remembered that God, most likely, no longer viewed me as one of His chosen people so I didn’t hold out any hope.
I thought about the chaos I could cause if I got sick while standing on the edge of this rotating circular conveyor, when suddenly I found the strength to sprint to the Ladies room where I threw up my guilt and thanked God for getting me there in time.
I returned to my date with renewed composure and fresh Sen Sen breath. Our conversation eventually drifted towards the courses we were taking and what we wanted to do after college. I was to be a teacher because my father said it was a good career for women to fall back on when their husbands died -- like their death was an intrinsic part of the plan.
Sandy, to my utter mortification, wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, and be a Rabbi....Kismet? I don’t think so. Devine intervention? Maybe. But, you’ll never convince me my father didn’t have a hand in this.