Breakfast and the Power of Beginnings

A new moon appeared this week. The Jewish calendar calls this day Rosh Chodesh, "the beginning of the month." My thoughts turn female.

The moon's mystic qualities are overtly feminine. Cyclical and gestational, the moon waxes and wanes to be reborn each month. In most times and cultures, women have been associated with the moon through ceremony and ritual. In Judaism, Rosh Chodesh is recognized as a women’s holiday dating back to late antiquity.

The new moon also holds the secret of beginnings—how beginnings contain (yet purposely conceal) the entirety of what lies ahead. Beginnings are microcosms: the seed to a tree, the ember to a fire. In a microcosm, we see the meaning of essence, that the nature of the whole is contained in its parts, infinitesimal in size. Like love.

The Jewish calendar is lunar, assigning unique spiritual qualities to the different moons of the year. Each Rosh Chodesh is a microcosm containing the essence of the month to come. The days emerge from it as a child from a womb. For this reason some are careful about the day, knowing it is a tenuous time, fraught with potentiality. The things we begin on Rosh Chodesh can grow into fixed patterns affecting our lives and psyches for the duration of the moon cycle. Like the moon, they grow in strength and potency until they peak. As the moon wanes, they slowly fade until they are gone. With the next new moon comes renewal—a clean slate and the chance to start again.

The moon, women, and beginnings share a commonality to most men: their ways are concealed, inscrutable, shrouded in secrecy.


On the subject of women and beginnings, my thoughts turn to morning, to breakfast—another beginning, another microcosm. Breakfast can be seen as the womb from which our day emerges. Our thoughts at the time, along with the food we eat and the energy it provides, establish the rhythm and pattern of the day to come.

It is important to start the day off right. It is important to have a good breakfast.

Merri and I eat the same breakfast every day: boiled whole oats with diced Granny Smith apple and cinnamon. Coffee. Later, a handful of almonds on the way out the door. These things are the raw materials of my day.

I wake each day to the voice of children. Akiva, the baby, stirs in his crib. Six-year old Zev tugs my foot.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

My mind snaps alert. A thought rises, fades. A significant part of the day’s pattern is immediately established—I will be surrounded by children in need. I teach in two schools each day.

I fix Zev’s breakfast: 2 scrambled eggs (sometimes waffles). A bowl of fruit, usually frozen grapes. A glass of almond milk. Vitamins: a chewable multi, a probiotic, three capsules of fish oil.

Zev sits to eat. I begin preparing my own breakfast. In doing this, another quality of my day is brought into being. As a parent and teacher, each day depends on how delicately I balance the act of placing others’ needs before my own.

Oats simmer over a medium flame on the stove. Bending over a dish, I slice through the apples. Purposeful, deliberate and slow, my knife is a morning prayer. It seeks to penetrate. Soon the apple collapses into a hundred tiny green cubes. When the oats are done cooking, I turn off the flame, stir in the apple and cinnamon.

The pot sits on the stove, delphic steam still rising from within. Looking inside, I hope to see something I can read, some insight into the day ahead amongst the oats and apples. I imagine seeing slight shadows inside the pot coalesce and shift together into imagery I should recognize. The random scattering of apples is not random at all. I know somewhere inside the pot is the pattern to my life, the secret to my days. I see nothing. The heavy padding of feet comes down the hall. Four-year old Sivan enters the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

"Abba, I have to pee," she says.

Oat reverts to oat, apple subsides to apple. The pot sits on the stove, the air fragrant with the scent of cinnamon.

"Good morning," I say.

Merri arrives in the kitchen carrying the baby and places him in the high chair. Sivan is finished with her breakfast of yogurt mixed dry cereal and now plays in the living room. The baby sits quiet, content. This moment is ours. She gets the bowls. I get the mugs. We eat. She takes oatmeal, coffee with a bit of milk and agave nectar. I take plain oatmeal, black coffee. Our conversation sifts through the lingering emotions and detritus of yesterday. Together, we move forward.

In this way the last and most important pattern is brought into being. My wife and I meet for our meals together during stolen moments at the poles of the day, always by early morning or late at night. Except weekends, rarely do we meet in between. Our breakfast is like the early morning moon, still visible in the pre-dawn sky. She disappears during the day. We reconvene at night.

A Perfect Pot of Porridge

This recipe takes cues from both Cook's Illustrated, who suggest using longer-cooking steel-cut oats and Peter Berley, who suggests soaking the oats overnight in a souring agent, such as yogurt, to promote lactic-acid formation. This ultimately makes the oats easier to digest. The final dish is delicious and creamy with a slight tang: perfect. Steel cut oats take longer to cook than rolled oats, but much of the cooking time requires minimal attention.

1 cup steel cut oats
3 1/2 cups spring water
1/4 cup plain full-fat yogurt
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Fresh sliced apples, yogurt, or nuts for topping

In heavy saucepan, combine the oats, water, and yogurt. Cover the pan and soak overnight, 8 to 10 hours. This is called FoodVibing the oats.

In the morning, put the saucepan over medium-high heat and bring to a lively simmer. Simmer gently for 20 minutes. Add the salt and stir lightly with a wooden spoon. Continue simmering, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon, until oats have absorbed most of the water and the porrdige is thick and creamy, 5-7 minutes.

Let the oatmeal stand off the heat for 5 minutes. Serve topped with fresh apple slices, yogurt, or crushed nuts.

On Cleansing and Fasting

I must have looked like a monster.

I was sitting in the front seat of my car, parked at a fire hydrant alongside a busy Bronx sidewalk. I had a crazed look in the eye, my face seemingly smeared with blood, dripping from the chin. Teeth gnashing, I rolled down the window to spit out a mouthful of carnage, trailing a line of saliva from my bottom lip to the curb. People on the sidewalk took a wide berth of my car—afraid to look too closely, afraid they might see the scattered, half-eaten limbs of children strewn across the back seat.

Afraid I might eat them too.

I was only eating a pomegranate, barehanded, with no napkin or utensils. I forgot to get them from the guy at the fruit stand.

It was the fifth day of a week-long cleansing fast. I was sucking out the juice, spitting whole mouthfuls of seeds into the street. At the time, I was too delirious with hunger, too high from fasting to care what I looked like. I was only concentrating on the taste of the juice in my mouth: a supernova of sweet, a cataclysmic explosion on my starved palate.

I had never tasted a pomegranate like this before.

It was pure intoxication.

I closed my eyes. The feeling went straight to my head. I swooned. I was woozy. I wanted to lean out the window, pump both fists in the air and scream to the world, “YES! YES! YES!”

***

For a week, I did the Master Cleanse, otherwise known as the Lemonade fast. I ate no food and drank only a concoction of filtered water, freshly squeezed organic lemon juice, raw honey, and cayenne pepper.

I couldn’t swallow the pomegranate seeds because I hadn’t eaten anything solid in a week. To do so would have seriously messed me up. You can’t just start eating right away after a long fast. You ease your digestive system back into gear with a few days of juices and broths slowly working your way to the hard stuff like meat, dairy, wheat, or alcohol.

That afternoon, I sucked the juice of three large pomegranates in my car.

I was gorged by the time I drove away; the street behind me oozed red like a crime scene.

***

I find something so attractive in the idea of the cleanse. As if, through fasting, we can correct everything wrong with our bodies and ourselves. It’s the ultimate romantic notion—that by simply cleansing ourselves we can seemingly fix our past, or even repair the broken relationships in our lives.

The Internet is rife with websites devoted to fasting, cleansing and natural healing remedies. Some sites have shocking photos of mucoid plaque, gall stones, kidney stones, and other physical monstrosities expelled from peoples’ bodies during a cleanse. Page after page offers ecstatic testimony: "Fasting saved my life!" "Fasting cleared my acne!" "Fasting cured my cancer."

Many of these testimonies delve deeply into the idealism and mysticism of self-purification—that you can fast and cleanse yourself to a perfect body and soul.

While I do believe several of those testimonies, the idea of cleansing this way comes very close to the misguided idea that one can get something for "nothing", that one can reap maximum benefits from a minimum effort or sacrifice. (Remember those BMG music club offers of twelve CD’s for a penny? If only it were true...)

Yet isn’t that what repentance is all about? That we can somehow fix ourselves? That it can happen in a moment or quicker? Isn’t fasting a sort of atonement?

I think life is much harder. Life requires more work.

While fasting has many untold healing and spiritual benefits, there seems to be also a sort of delusion involved for the many dilettantes who swear by it. It can all get out of hand. Approached incorrectly, fasting can be dangerous. One can become carried away with the idea of self-righteousness and purification, to the point where you end up like the kid in Into The Wild. Tragic and pointless.

I must admit, though, sometimes I imagine myself plunging headlong into a twenty, thirty, or fifty day cleansing fast, wasting away into nothing. Renouncing my possessions and my material life, I’d roam barefoot and ghostlike among the streets of New York in a lightheaded stupor. My clothes become shabby, my hair dreaded and matted. From the alley, I stare up at the windows of other peoples’ homes, meditating on the shadow that my life has become like a character in a Paul Auster novel.

I have that in me somewhere. I have to be careful.

***

In spite of my skepticism I keep coming back. I continually find myself seeking out fasting lore and methodology. I planned my latest fast weeks in advance, allowing myself to become obsessed, gearing up the whole time. I did a mini six-day fast leading up to Pesach. It was fantastic.

I’ve always been fascinated by the ascetic mystic, the holy person, the person who has mastered the act of fasting. People like Siddhartha, Gandhi, and the Jewish monarch David are among those who have been able to, through an entire lifetime of fasting and discipline, turn their bodies into conduits for the Divine. By overcoming and mastering their physicality they were seemingly able to perfect their souls in the process. Something about that process resonates deeply within me.

I lust for it.

Fasting plays a prominent role in Jewish mysticism

Anyone who has ever fasted will attest to this idea—that fasting is a process, which, through the negation of the physical, sharpens and hones our spiritual proclivities. It seems to open up something deep within the immaterial parts of our being.

Fasters of this type are spiritual giants. They've worked hard and long at it, and are people who have cultivated the silent spaces within themselves. They have mastered how to make the body serve the soul.

But then there others--people obsessed with non-medical natural healing theories and cleansing rituals. You'll find them on any number of websites peddling their wares: colonics, herbal supplements, enemas, fasting regimens, liver flushes and detox programs. Most of these people have no legitimate medical background and dubious credentials, but they beam with pride and sanctimony about how healthy and vigorous they are.

They scare me.

Months ago I walked into my local health store in search of a good colon-cleansing product. It was during my first attempt at a cleansing fast, and I was rapt with the idea of flushing any trace of toxicity from my body.

The short man behind the counter looked like he could have been of Indian descent. Or Arabian. Or South American. Or Chinese. His black hair fell over his shoulders and hung halfway down his back. He wore a cobalt blue colored frock at knee length. A piece of topaz set into a leather string hung from his neck. His dark eyes, set deep into his face, gave him the appearance of one who could have been forty years old. Or sixty. Or one hundred. Behind him was a woman with bright crimson-dyed hair. She sat cross-legged on a high stool. She was smoking and laughing at something she was reading.

“Can I help you?” asked the man.

“Yes. I’m looking for a good colon cleanser.”

“Ah,” he said, lifting one eyebrow, leaning on both hands firmly planted on the counter. “Why?”

“Well, I’m in the middle of a cleansing fast, and I want to do a colon flush at the same time.”

I found myself explaining my fasting regimen to him—when I started, what I was drinking, how long I planned to go, why I was doing it. I felt unsure of myself. What was I even saying? Who was this guy? He looked like a short, swarthy version of The Vampire Lestat. I wanted to leave.

“Wait here,” he said, and walked into the back.

The lady on the stool put down the magazine and looked up at me. Her hair was too high, too red. She wore too much foundation. Seeming to read my mind, she spoke in a thick Russian accent, “Don’ worry,” she said. “Is good.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is good,” she repeated, “We take care of you.”

I didn’t have time to respond. The man returned from the back room with two large bottles. One contained a solution of water and bentonite clay. The other, an economy-sized jar of Super Cleanse tablets—a mixture of herbs and fiber promising to “detoxify, cleanse, and rebuild”.

He explained the regimen I must undergo to use these products effectively, and how the result would be a healthy, pink, clean colon. He also said I should drink 2 ounces of fresh squeezed lemon juice mixed with a glass of filtered water every morning upon waking. As he spoke he lifted each eyebrow at different times for effect. He voice was raspy. He spoke slowly, leaned close, as if he were whispering secrets.

I turned the bottles over in my hand. He turned away to the cash register to ring the sale.

“I’m also drinking Goji juice in the morning,” I added.

At that, I noticed a slightly perceptible shudder pass through his body. He quaked, closed the cash drawer, spun around quickly.

“You got the Goji?” he stammered, eyebrows going haywire as if I had uttered a verbal cue to let him know that I, too, was a part of an ancient, esoteric, secret society.

“Um,” I said, “Yes. I got it last week.”

“This is good,” he spoke fervently, “this is very good.”

“Yes,” said the Russian woman on the chair, “Is good.”

I paid for the clay solution and cleansing tablets and got the hell out of there.

***

In the end, I always come back.

Even as I write this, I've just finished my second cleansing fast, and am still thinking about it. I’m thinking what people who know have told me—that the most important part of any fast is what comes after. That is, how the fast has changed your perceptions about health and wellness to the point that it has permanently changed your habits.

Because your body exists in such a delicate stasis while on an extended fast, you really see how the things you put into your body affect your energy level, mental acuity, and spirituality.

As a result, I have made some drastic lifestyle and wellness changes that I can see lasting for a long time, hopefully forever. So in that sense, the fast was a success.

But on a more important level, fasting has made me realize a few other things.

First, I noticed how much time we spend preparing food, eating food, or thinking about what to eat next. The entire day opens up when you are not concerned with these things. This feeling is similar to the one I had when I swore off television—you realize how much time you have wasted. I experienced the same thing when I gave up smoking as well.

Even with all of this newfound time while fasting, it still seems that I spend most of it just sitting around, waiting for my water to filter.

There is a metaphor in there somewhere.

Continuing on the subject of time, it is just exactly that which fasting has taught me the most—that time is indeed precious and scarce.

Fasting forces us to think about how we fill the empty spaces, the silence.

It all comes down to how we have used our time. That has been and always will be how we assess the success of life. There is no quick fix. You can't get something for nothing. It all comes down to how we fill the seconds, the moments, the hours. These are the things that ultimately make up all of our days. And we live them.

Soul Food

We eat good food because we understand the nutrition it provides. We protect our bodies. We seek the maximum energy benefit from the things we eat. When we cook food we allow the ingredients to take full force and we skillfully release the properties of each ingredient at the right time and temperature. This is similar to the way a painter uses paint, or a poet words. An overcooked steak is rendered tasteless and neutered, ravaged by flame, destroyed by heat. This is akin to an overly sentimental poem, ravaged by conceit, destroyed by cliché. We are careful about how we eat and cook in the same way that we are purposeful and deliberate about how we write. We are artists after all.

We know that as certain foods are digested, the properties they release into our bodies affect our physical well being in many ways. This is so basic that it need not be said. I only say it to make a point. One of the mantras of our generation is: I’m spiritual, but not religious.

Fair enough. I applaud this sentiment because it takes courage to say it.

We live in an age of fallen idols; we're tired of the hypocrisy and downright criminal lunacy we seen in many of our clergy and organized religions. While we want no part of it, we still seek meaning. We believe whole heartedly that there is something higher than ourselves, even physical reality. We may even believe in something called a soul.

Does food then have a soul?

I say yes.

If we believe that certain foods nourish us physically, then doesn’t it make sense that certain foods would also be spiritually nourishing? Just as some foods enhance our physical strength, doesn’t it make sense that some foods would also enhance our ability to perceive spirituality? To sense it? To become more spiritually attuned? This is the idea behind the kosher laws, or kashrut. Kosher food is soul food.

Some people say that kashrut is outdated; they say it was merely a way to keep people healthy in an age that was unaware of microbes, refrigeration, and micro-pathology. To me, these people are missing the point entirely. Kashrut maintains not only the physical health of a people, but the spiritual health. Like protein for muscle tissue, kashrut works the same way for the soul, our spiritual antenna, that part of us that is entirely essence.

Everyone knows that pigs are unkosher. Everyone also knows that the flesh of most pigs is teeming with trichina worms, which when ingested, also plague the eater. This, however, is not why they are unkosher.

There are thousands of other animals that are also unkosher: horses, rabbits, bears, rodents, felines, canines, most species of birds, most of what lives in the sea, almost every insect, reptiles. The list goes on. These food sources have sustained and continue to sustain entire civilizations. These foods are not unkosher because they are unhealthy. Ancient peoples knew how to cook food. They had thousands of years of oral tradition that taught them what to eat and how to cook. In a way, they knew more than we do. They didn’t need a religious edict to tell them what to avoid.

Like everything else in the cosmos our food has a physical and spiritual nature. Some foods build up the body, while others break it down. Similarly, some foods dull our spiritual sensibilities while others are catalysts that enhance them. Some foods, as opposed to others, facilitate within us a greater ability to achieve higher consciousness.

Pigs are unkosher because there is something about their essence that is spiritually profane. When eaten, it forms a blockage within us, clogging the soul the way cholesterol clogs the arteries. The essence of pig is so spiritually degraded that even while pigs are alive their flesh is being eaten by worms—like a common corpse, they are spiritually lifeless.

This is not an endorsement for kashrut, nor do I think everyone should follow it. I’m not like that. Those who know me know that about me. However, I will ask a question: If we are spiritual people, how can we eat in ways that enhance this part of us?

How can we, our bodies and souls, all get high together?