For years I would ask my wife each day at dinner, “Why must we eat this food? It’s terrible — knishes, chicken soup, challah, kreplach,” and my wife would say, “We have to eat this food. We’re Jewish.”
Finally, I wrote a letter to my rabbi:
I am dying under the weight of my food. A leaden matzo ball is tied to my ankle, and I’m drowning in a vat of chicken soup. Save me!
The rabbi invited me into his study and said, “Yankel, you should be a writer.”
Ever since, I have been writing. I eat the same food, but it tastes better now.