I grew up in a house that was not typically Jewish, if there is such a thing. My mom had a huge Christmas party every year and I have much stronger memories of Easter Egg hunts than of Passover seders. But despite our holiday traditions, we always knew that we were Jewish, if not by the ever-growing collection of holocaust history books on the shelves than by our love for deli. Pickes, rye bread, matzo ball soup, kishka, kasha, knishes, egg-creams and dr. browns. I have so many memories of the family crowded into booths, the table cluttered with the remnants of everyone's abundant orders, and we sit there, picking away at bagel chips and rye crusts and almond horns until there was nothing left on the table, no more stories to tell over and over again. When, three hours later, we scooch out of the booth and back home. And for my family, all of this goes on at Canter's on Fairfax.

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