The Philosophy of a Meringue

I cooked on Yom Kippur. On the day where religion prevents any food or beverage intake, I decided to make meringues for a break fast dinner later that evening. As I separated the egg whites from their yellow yokey counterparts and beat them with granulated ivory colored sugar, I felt my stomach growl with impatience. I checked the kitchen clock. It was 2:00pm. Six more hours to go.
Food isn't the real point of the holiday. I know that. Denying oneself sustainance for a 25-hour period is a sacrifice, a symbol of repentence for any sins or wrongdoings committed in the past year. But as I watched as the egg-sugar combination whipped its way up to a glossy, creamy foam, I couldn't get past the literal: going without food is hard. Yet, for a variety of social, financial, and psychological reasons, many people do. And forget about the fluffy mini meringues now baking under a 225 degree heat. It's basic bread and butter people are doing without. What I am facing for one day others will have to bear for most of the year.
An hour later, I took the meringues out of the oven, and scooped these delicate white balls off of the baking pan. When the sun disappeared that night--indicating that the fast was over--I bit into the meringue. Its exterior was hard and crispy, and contrasted nicely with the soft, sweet center. I let the sugary dessert stay on my tongue for just a moment before it dissolved, making its way to my empty stomach. As I reached for my second one, I thought about how good food could be. With my repentence came another lesson that night: appreciation.