When I was very little, I would go to a prayer meeting, or minyan, with my dad every morning. I remember munching on rye bread and bagels at the small breakfast afterwards while my dad talked with the others in attendance. My mom says that the sweets they fed me for breakfast at the shul ruined any hopes she had of convincing me to eat a regular, healthy breakfast. I remember, too, when I first began to realize that not everybody was Jewish. My mom absolutely forbade telling the other girls in my kindergarten class that I knew Santa wasn’t real. I can’t remember if I listened or not.
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