Jewish Rye Bread
Observations on the Substance of ComfortSunday, after watering my friend’s plants, I walked past Moishe’s Kosher Bakery on Grand St. Unless I take the long route, it’s always on my way home from plant-watering, followed by the Target, the fruit stand and the new Lebanese spot. Moishe’s has “real New York” charm. It looks vintage because it is. Warm dingy light beckons through gold siding, a rusty metal gate and a standard green awning. A partially empty display of black and whites and hamantaschen appear in the window. Whether this supply is due to low or high demand remains a mystery and a moot point: these cookies have an eternal shelf life. As a lover of hole-in-the-walls and skeptic of bakeries touting dietary restrictions, I consult google:
⭐⭐⭐⭐ 2 weeks ago
They don't open on the Sabbath, and they don't wear masks, but that's ok, because the chocolate babka is literally to die for. The hamantaschen is worth the risk, too.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ a month ago
The BEST Jewish Rye Bread you can get.
The Black & White cookies are superb.
I'll be going back for more soon.
On any other day, “they don’t wear masks,” would have me walking away in huffy contempt. Yet there I was, my hand calmly on the front door. No anger or judgement, just a well timed entry, swift order and efficient exchange of dollars. Then something happened. The older woman working the counter (mask around her chin, a cookie in mouth and stooped shoulders no taller than the display case) touched my hand with her knuckles as she passed me my change. In that moment, I did not immediately seek out the nearest hand sanitizer; I lingered in her graze, the soft paperiness of her sun-spotted skin against my palm. It felt nice, comfortable, right...despite the deeply ingrained covid neuroticism that makes me yell at the TV when characters aren’t wearing masks. It was comfortable the way toasted rye with butter or a really soft hug is. In the comfort we were breaking all of the rules and I didn’t care. Comfort convinces you everything is ok, you are ok, even when it most definitely is not.
Discomfort works in a similar but opposite fashion. It convinces us we are fundamentally not ok, not safe, even when we are. I cannot count the number of times a white person (myself included) has described a conversation - in which their whiteness is confronted - as “uncomfortable.”
This has led me to multiple readings of the dictionary definitions of comfort and discomfort. The sentiment is rooted, etymologically, in strength - from latin, “fortis.”
There is so much to unpack when a white person says something is uncomfortable. Many focus on the courageous value of the moment and fail to do the unpacking. I’ll dump out my suitcase on the floor for those who like seeing other people's dirty laundry (or know someone with similar laundry). There’s always more to unpack.
Adjacent to the discomfort is ignoring someone else’s comfort. Underneath it is some level of fear. Fear of what? The brain evades and says: of hurting someone by saying the wrong thing. It clings to being “good” and “harmless.” It pretends to be a protector, positioning the “other” as less powerful and in need of protection. Fear of what? Being wrong and losing intellectual and moral superiority. Being wrong and losing social reputation. Being wrong and being flawed, imperfect, unworthy, unloveable. Fear of what?
And so, we are uncomfortable because suddenly a mere conversation is a threat to our sense of being. Whiteness goes hand in hand with a certain comfort; material, physical, intellectual, moral, emotional. We are good because we are comfortable and comfortable because we are good. We have tied our sense of well-being to right-being, our sense of belonging and acceptance to our sense of power. When you have manufactured your own discomfort, you can sever that tie.
The other day, in a very different context, I spoke with an entrepreneur about what operating from a place of comfort would look like. She worried she would lose her edge. I was reminded of the peculiarities of this substance called comfort.
Certain types of comfort act like a cage or a false safety net. They limit our perception and keep us where we are. We become stagnant, mollified, disinterested in the new. We fail to explore and refuse to examine ourselves or our actions.
But the opposite is not inherently or permanently uncomfortable. You can grow, adventure, become and belong with a different kind of comfort. You just have to know where to find that soft hug of unconditional love and a good loaf of rye.
PS. The word comfort always brings to mind:
Morgan Parker’s book and epinonimous poem, Other People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up at Night
My parents wedding vows: Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away. (From Dinah Maria Mulock Craik’s A Life For A Life).
What does comfort make you think of?
