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When people ask what religion I am - an occurrence whose frequency seems to sextuple in December - I usually answer with a stock phrase: "Well, my grandparents are Jewish," I say. "And my parents sometimes are."

Typically this gets the precise groan/laugh combo perfectly suited to ending the conversation and moving on to the next topic, often something food-related. There's a lot more that goes into my religious beliefs than watered-down inheritance, but I don't need to get into that here, I don't think. As long as I'm on the topic, I'll say that my faith meter seems most active when it's in a foreign setting - I feel my Judaism affirmed more when I walk into a church than when I walk into a synagogue. I don't know why this is or what this means, but it matches the way I feel more American when I'm traveling in another country than I do when I'm home.

Neither of my parents', um, partners is Jewish. That's fine though - they (my 'rents) have already had their Jewish children (to the best of their abilities), thus fulfilling what I'm sure is some Jewish law somewhere, maybe. Nobody notices that Tim and Kevin aren't Jewish except, of course, on the Jewish holidays.

That's because it's when we all go to Grandma's house. Hanukkah began last night, and because Sundays are the easiest time for the most members of my family to get together, we had a pre-Hanukkah brunch over at the grandfolks' in Mendota Heights. (Yes, we had a gift exchange. No, I didn't bring a book.) I always get a kick out of watching my grandma explain certain artifacts and traditions to our gentile visitors; yesterday she gave a fairly comprehensive discourse on the origins of dreidels. Grandma's almost exactly the same height as Kevin - Mom's boyfriend - so long as Kevin is sitting down. She leaned over his chair with a sheet of faux-parchment that held the answer key to what those strange, blocky letters on the dreidel actually stand for, and Kevin watched her spin the dreidel - or 'top' - again and again, trying to get each letter to turn up.

If you want a visual aid for the scene I've just described, I'll allow you to pretend it went like this, even though it didnt.

Maybe it's the sign of a truly modern Jewish family when one of the rituals - as consistent and necessary as breaking the matzoh during Passover - is explaining our traditions to the non-Jewish people that have become a part of our family. I dunno.

I wasn't exactly reminded of the following poem, but happened to read the poem later and was reminded of yesterday's brunch. Translated from Kabir by Minnesota's own Robert Bly, I found it in The Paris Review Book of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, Travels, The Art of Writing, and Everything Else in the World since 1953.

The Breath

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat!
My shoulder is against yours.
You will not find me in stupas, nor in Indian shrine rooms,
    nor in the synagogues, nor in cathedrals:
not in masses, nor kirtans, notin legs winding around
    neck, nor in eating nothing but vegetables.
When you really look for me, you will see me instantly -
you will find me in the tiniest house of time.
Kabir says, "Student, tell me, what is God?
He is the breath inside the breath."