The High Holidays both unite families and split them up. Almost every family has the traditional quarrels: where to celebrate, who is coming and who dares to spend the holiday with the other side of the family (we'll discuss those who flee to Sinai or to Turkey on another occasion). The weeks and days before the holiday are therefore a period of tension, pressures and counter-pressures, and stressful and panicky phone conversations, to the point where one almost wants to split each holiday into two dates: the one you celebrate with the groom's side, and the one that is dedicated to the bride's side.

Grandma Louise found a festive and sneaky solution to the problem: She ruled that the meal at the end of Yom Kippur was a major holiday from which no family member had permission to be absent. There was no strong competition for this date on the part of the families who joined ours in ties of marriage, and thus breaking the fast in the high apartment facing Balfour Street in Bat Yam became a family tradition.

At the end of Yom Kippur, as soon as the first of the children succeeded in spotting three stars in the sky, we would pile into the car, rushing to get through part of the trip before the traffic jams. On the way we would fantasize about the special treats served only on this day, for which we had longed all year. When we entered the apartment we were momentarily overwhelmed by the enticing smell, while at the same time we tried to take in and assess all the good things on the heavily laden tables. Judging by the number of dishes one could have assumed that this was a meal meant for people who hadn't eaten for weeks, rather than those breaking a relatively easy fast of only 25 hours.