the bread of affliction

Tonight begins Passover, a Jewish holiday involving eating lots of matzah, an unleavened bread apparently designed to induce constipation. (Catholics amongst you may be more familiar with the bread as the bite-sized ‘crispy Jesus’ served up for Communion.) Like most Jewish holidays, Passover (or Pesach, in Hebrew) is based on the time-tested formula:

  1. They tried to kill us.
  2. God saved us.
  3. Let’s eat.

In this case, ‘they’ being Pharaoh, the saving coming in the form of the ten plagues, and the eating (unfortunately) largely existing in the form of the aforementioned matzah. Still, at least during each of the first two nights, the eating also entails holding a seder, a ritualized festive meal involving a retelling of the story of Moses and the Jewish people’s escape from Egypt, as well as eating enough brisket, kugel and matzah-ball soup (all Jewish soul foods) in one sitting to kill a small family, all the while your Grandmother egging you on (“look at you, you’re skin and bones! Eat, eat!”)

While such seders occur only on the first two nights (likely for the safety of Jews’ collective digestive tracts), the holiday of Passover itself runs eight days total, and throughout the entire stretch any non-matzah bread products (as well any rice, corn or legumes) are strictly forbidden. Which, for me, shouldn’t be too bad, as I try to eat Paleo most of the time anyhow. Still, throughout the rest of the year, I tend to stray from the Paleo approach whenever the urge strikes (occasionally picking up a slice of Ray’s fine pizza around the corner, for example); with the constraints of Passover in place, it’s Paleo or nothing, and the sudden knowledge that I can’t sneak in some pasta leaves me craving it full time. So, I’m off to a business lunch, where I’ll be carbo-loading like it’s my job. As we recite during each seder, “all who are hungry – come and eat.”

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April 5, 2004

glass slipper

Sunday evening, direct off the plane back from Denver, I headed to the Tribeca Grand, to screen I Love Your Work for Stellar Network, a young New York filmmakers networking group. After the screening (and a brief Q&A session), I headed up to the bar where a small group of attendees had congregated. Among them was a very attractive redhead, and I smoothly sidled over to strike up a conversation. Not just attractive, it turned out, but smart as well – a screenwriter who spent her days working at the Legal Aid Society. Before I had the chance to ask for her phone number, however, I was pulled away briefly by the event’s organizer, who wanted to thank me for screening the film. A few minutes later, when I turned back around, the redhead was gone.

Despite the Cinderella act, I realized there was at least some chance she’d be materializing again for Stellar’s monthly bar party, which happened to fall yesterday evening. I had a dinner meeting (with an OSU undergrad who also serves as publisher and CEO of the highly successful brass|MEDIA finance magazine – we wunderkinds try to stick together), and hoped to head down directly. Post-dinner, however, I realized I didn’t have the address on me, and so called a friend from Kentucky who works at Miramax and belongs to Stellar. Did she know where the party was? Absolutely, she drawled back; she was headed there herself, and she was fairly sure it was at some bar on 9th between Avenue A and Avenue B.

As my cab turned onto 9th, however, it hit me that, unless the party was a barbecue, the address she had given couldn’t possibly be correct; between A and B, 9th St becomes Tompkins Square Park. By that point, however my Miramax friend had apparently already ducked into the bar, as she was no longer picking up her phone. After dialing through the list of all the people I knew who might be at the event as well and wandering a bit through the surrounding blocks hoping I’d see someone I knew outside the correct bar, I finally gave up and stopped in at Doc Holliday’s for a drink.

As I was walking back to the subway to head home, I got a call from one of the other attendees I had tried to track down. On 9th between A and B? No, the bar was on 9th between 3rd and 4th. I hoofed it over a few blocks and headed in. By that point, however, the party was on its last legs, with everyone jacketing up to head home.

Still, a bit of detective work yielded that the girl had, in fact, shown up briefly earlier in the evening. Further asking around even turned up her name. So, armed with that, and the bits of biography recalled from our initial conversation, the Google search is on. Once again, blurring the fine line between charmingly determined suitor and crazy internet stalker guy.

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April 1, 2004