I used my lunch hour today to run a few errands. In my last 15 minutes, I flew into my apartment to grab some lunch (I hate buying food when I know I have the makings for a wonderful salad in the fridge, all ready to be combined). Standing in front of the elevator, munching a piece of toast, the salad neatly packed into a plastic container, I saw my neighbor Lucille at the far of the hall. Just at that moment, the elevator came and I hopped on, frantically pushing the ‘door close’ button.
The reason I hurriedly ducked my neighbor? That damned piece of toast. You see, it’s Passover, the Jewish holiday during which leavened products are forbidden. While I’ve never been much of a Jew (although officially, by birth I am completely Jewish), Lucille practices and believes that I should too. She’s the one who lambasted me two summers ago when my mezuzah went missing. And I just knew that if she caught me eating toast (delicious, artisanal sourdough), I would be in for a lecture. So I didn’t hold the elevator for her.