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When I go to a Washington Senators baseball game (Griffith Stadium is only a few blocks from my father’s store), unlike my friends, I can’t eat a hot dog. Even an egg salad or grilled cheese sandwich at the drugstore down the street is forbidden, because, my father explains, the knife that cut the sandwich might have just been used to cut a ham sandwich. I protest, “I’ll ask that it not be cut.” “No. Think of the plate that may have been used for ham,” my father or mother says. “ Traif —it’s all traif. ” Can you imagine, Dr. Yalom, hearing this when you’re thirteen? It’s insane! This vast universe—trillions of stars being born and dying, natural disasters occurring every minute on earth, and my parents insist that God has nothing better to do than to check drugstore knives for molecules of ham?
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