The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Maybe it's the crust I'm gnawing on, maybe it's writing the Ghetto all the time, maybe it's because Passover is approaching and I'd rather ponder than clean my room before bed. But I was thinking how important bread is. People kill and die for it. Two-kilo loaves of half-potato, half-rye under duress in Eastern Europe; conical spelt loaves near the Nile; the stuff in the bakery bag you don't think about, the stuff in the plastic bag that's always there.

...Can you imagine what kind of faith it takes to listen to a man who tells you God's set you free, but you have to leave now, and there's no time even for bread?

I'd be scared. I don't know if I'd have that much faith; I might choose the bread I knew, bitter as it was to choke down. I might stay where I knew there would be bread for my family, even if I collapsed before my next mouthful still a slave. I might give up freedom for certainty, freedom for bread.

...Matzah, anyone?