Amy Ephron

It’s almost Yom Kippur and for those of you who are fasting, I can imagine the whining by four o’clock. “I’m hungry. Yikes this is hard.” It actually is kind of hard not to eat for a day and I am not in awe of people who go on prolonged cleansing fasts, as I’m not sure it’s actually good for you.

But fasting on Yom Kippur is a tradition and one that is honored by many on what is called The Day of Atonement. Even the origins of fasting are murky. There is possibly one biblical reference to fasting which I read in an article in the Israeli newspaper online, Haaretz: “ye shall afflict your souls,” which, the author in Haaretz states, “elsewhere in the Bible usually refers to fasting.”

But it’s a tradition that’s stuck, which brings me to break fast. One would think break fast would be an extraordinary meal, filled with all kinds of special and unique dishes. But in Los Angeles, at least, a city I can speak to, when you go to someone’s house at sundown for break fast, it most closely resembles breakfast at a deli rather than an evening feast. Bagels, cream cheese, & lox abound. Blintzes are often featured. Often accompanied by scrambled eggs.

It almost makes sense. After you’ve fasted, you generally want something light and brisket wouldn’t be the ticket. On the other hand, I could be talked into some brisket hash with poached eggs!

But what I always love to have for dinner, once or twice a year, and possibly for break fast is My Mother’s Lox, Onion, & Eggs!

Everyone has a side of the bed. At least I think they do. I always sleep on the right side by the windows, just in case I want to make a quick exit. (Kidding.) Most people, I think, have a dedicated place at the table. We don’t really. We tend to move around, a product of our lifestyle; the view; the sort of loft-like nature of our house; who happens to be at the dinner table. One or the other of us might say, “I want to sit here.” Or one of the children, “Wait a minute, that’s MY place.” And then a shuffle occurs and we all reorder ourselves.

I also don’t believe in the rule that couples should be separated at a dinner party. Sometimes couples should be allowed to sit next to each other (and sometimes not...) depending on the make-up of the dinner party. Inevitably someone protests one rule or another – “I want to sit next to him,” or someone else will say, “Couples should be separated, I can’t help it that I feel that way, I’m British.” If there are only six of you at dinner, it doesn’t make that much difference, anyway. I sometimes wish we had a dining room that accommodated a round table. We don’t. We have a long thin dining room with a slanted ceiling (higher on one side than the other), windows only on one side and not the length-wise side, that one of my nephews refers to as “The Mafia Room.” I’m not sure why.

1) When the person making you scrambled eggs says, “Do you want me to cook these in olive oil?”

2) Followed by, “You don’t really want a bagel, do you?”

3) And when the bagel is grudgingly toasted and delivered to the table, naked and somewhat unappealing, the shy whispered remark, “I didn’t think you wanted anything on it...”

4) A few hours later, you call a friend and say, “I’m going to be a little late, I’m going to the gym.” And they respond, “Really, I didn’t know you went to the gym...”

Which brings me to my excellent recipe for an egg white frittata, which I usually make in grapeseed oil but olive oil works, too. And if you put enough ingredients in it, you really don’t need a bagel.

I’d flown to New York for too short a time and then extended my stay because I had too many things to do and then flew home. Crowded/full flights both ways, a little delay, and by the time I reached L.A., I was flat on my back. Jet lag. No. Fever.

And for me a completely curious thing - since I think the cure for the stomach flu is a chili dog or a hamburger please with French fries - absolutely no appetite. None. I was nervous about that.

I didn’t eat anything for two days – don’t discuss my metabolism, two hours is a long time for me.

But by the third day, I still didn’t feel like I could eat anything.

Unaccustomed to any processed food, maybe blame it on the “cheese plate” if you can call it that that comes packaged on the plane if they put enough on and you can in fact purchase one, I felt only the freshest thing would do. Not even chicken soup. (I have a theory by the way that chicken soup is not a curative but quite the opposite, but that’s another story.)

All I wanted was some kind of broth, no, something slightly more substantial. Home-made vegetable soup. The easiest thing in the world.