The shul is a sea of white. A somber hush spreads through the crowd as the aron kodesh is opened. The haunting strains of Kol Nidrei begin….

“Like the beginning of my article?”

“Hey, didn’t you say you’re writing about Purim…?”

“Oy! You’re right. My editor will have a fit. I better start over…”

I am sitting in the airport on a desperately awkward date. The guy – we’ll call him Moishy – nearly jumps out of his hard, plastic seat and peppers me with question after ridiculous question. I, on the other hand, slink lower and lower as heads begin to turn in our direction. I can think of nothing I want more than to go home and take some Tylenol.

But Moishy is relentless. He shoots out his next question: “My wife is gonna have to bake challa. Uh…do you bake challa?”

Now here is a question I can answer confidently. “No!” I state emphatically and maybe a bit too happily. (Is this my lucky ticket out of here?)

Moishy is thrown off, but only for a moment. “Uh…do you plan on baking challa when you get married?”