Talking on Broken Glass

This weekend I triumphed in successfully making my very own Vietnamese fresh spring rolls. No longer will I have to rely on takeout for these soft rice paper-wrapped vegetable appetizers. I even can stand proud on the dipping sauce front.

Standing over the sink, pulling out strands of glass noodles, I carefully held the wet wrappers so that they wouldn't tear. I packaged the food inside itself, handling it with great care. The tofu, the carrots, the cucumber, the lettuce, a single basil leaf.

Just as I finished the second gorgeous batch, a small jar fell from a top shelf and smashed my favorite glass pitcher. Heavy-bottomed, elegant, and Polish, this useful object took me years to hunt and find. Finally this weekend I unpacked and placed it on the counter, anticipating any number of Mojitos.

Picking up the shards, I thought about how luck and blessings can come when you have some success--the ability to compete with a south Asian restaurant--but are still yearning, feeling like you're walking around in the dark. Immediately I thought of Jewish weddings, as if I myself was participating in a dyslexic ceremony--break glass, then tie the knot. Instead of feeling blue I'd been unable to catch the pitcher, I thought, Divine light must--per mystic tradition--be flooding my apartment, freed from the glass. And glass noodles.