If you read the Mishpacha magazine, you’ve probably seen the comic strip The Kichels by Bracha Stein and Chani Judowitz. If you haven’t, you should. This week’s made me chuckle.
The basic gist of it is, a group of young boys walk into a Beis Horaah (for those that don’t know – it is a place where people bring halachic questions to a Rav) with what they believe are very serious halachic questions. One wants to know whether he can eat Shabbos cereal, fruit swirls are his favorite, during the week if no other cereal is left. Another asks what happens if there is another cereal, but it’s the gross kind. A third is worried about bowl measurements: who took how much, if you missed eating your portion on Shabbos, whether Tuesday can count instead, and how to make it fair if someone got an extra quarter bowl.
By the time they’re done, Shabbos cereal has become a national crisis.
We laugh because we see how they’ve made something so insignificant seem so big. It’s just cereal!! It’s meant to just be eaten. Instead, it’s being defined, measured, and debated like a major halachic issue.
But if we’re honest, the humor lands because it feels uncomfortably familiar.
Children have a way of turning something inconsequential into something essential. A colorful box of cereal becomes a question of justice. A bowl becomes a matter of fairness. To them, it really matters.
We smile because we assume they’ll grow out of it. That one day they’ll look back and realize it was just cereal. But the tendency to turn small things into defining ones doesn’t disappear with age, it just shows up in more sophisticated ways.
In shidduchim, we bring our own version of the cereal box to the table.
“I’d like someone taller.”
“I’m looking for a certain background.”
“I’m more comfortable with this style.”
“I’d rather someone from that type of school.”
There’s nothing wrong with preferences. They’re normal. They help us think through a big decision. Preferences are meant to guide us, not govern us, but too often, we let them take on more weight than they deserve. We turn minor details into final judgments. We elevate the trivial to dealbreaker status.
What started as “I think this would be nice” becomes “I can’t compromise on this.” One line on a resume becomes the reason we never meet someone. A school, a profession, a neighborhood — details that were meant to inform end up driving the decision.
There’s another line in the comic that I keep coming back to, where one of the kids says, “What if there is other cereal, but it’s the gross kind?” There is cereal on the shelf, but it’s already been dismissed as one you do not want to try.
How often do we say, “There’s no one out there for me,” when what we really mean is that the options in front of us don’t match the exact picture we had in mind? The cereal exists. We’ve just decided we don’t like it before we’ve even opened the box.
That doesn’t mean every option is right. It doesn’t mean saying yes to everyone. But there is a difference between discovering something isn’t for you and deciding it’s “gross” based on the outside of the box.
A few lines later, the boys take it even further. One of the boys asks, “When is the zeman for Shabbos cereal no longer chai?” He wants to know the time limit. When does it expire? When is it officially too late? A halachic expiration date on Fruit Swirls. 😂
The truth is, we would love that kind of certainty, too. How many dates before I’m supposed to know? If I don’t feel something by date three, is that a sign? If I do feel something quickly, does that mean I’m being unrealistic? When is it too early to talk about certain topics? When is it too late?
We want a formula. Date three is for this. Date five is for that. If you don’t feel it by date seven, it’s a no. It would make everything easier if there were clear zmanim, printed neatly on the back of the dating box.
But people don’t come with instructions. There is no guaranteed timeline for connection. Some things grow slowly. Some clarity only comes with time. And if we decide too quickly that the cereal has “expired,” we may never find out what it could have become.
This isn’t about lowering standards. It’s not about ignoring real differences or red flags. Marriage is serious. It deserves thought, but there’s a difference between taking something seriously and turning every small thing into something essential. Height starts to feel like character. A school name starts to feel like an identity. A resume line starts to feel like the whole person.
It’s not just that we focus on all the insignificant details. It’s the emotional intensity we attach to them. It’s the seriousness with which we treat them. We don’t just consider it; we deliberate over it. We analyze it the way those boys analyzed the bowl’s measurements. We bring it into our own Beis Horaah, as if it requires a ruling. And because it feels so serious, we feel morally justified.
The boys in the comic are trying to make it fair. They want everything to add up. They want clear answers and neat rules.
So do we, but the most important things in a marriage don’t show up on paper. Kindness. Emotional steadiness. The ability to listen. The willingness to grow. They aren’t as easy to measure as bowl sizes and cereal names. You don’t see them fully in a resume. You don’t discover them in a bio. They’re discovered in real interaction.
Children make cereal into a big deal because their world is small and the cereal feels big inside it. Adults make small details into big deals because the stakes feel so high. It’s easier to debate a resume line than to sit with the vulnerability of choosing a person. It’s easier to say no to something concrete than to risk saying yes to something uncertain.
The truth is, the smaller the detail, the easier it is to feel certain about it. It’s much harder to feel certain about a human being.
Maybe the question isn’t whether details matter.
The question is: does this detail truly tell me something important about the kind of life we could build together, or is it just Fruit Swirls?
Because while we’re busy measuring cereal in quarter bowls, we might be overlooking what actually matters.
In other news…
In last week’s newsletter, I introduced a couple of new words, and turns out, I’m not the only one who geeks out over a good word. So, I’ve decided we’re making this a thing.
Welcome to Word of the Week, where each week I will write about a word that’s unusual, obscure, or a surprisingly precise word related to dating, marriage, or just being human.
This week’s word: Alexithymia (uh-lek-suh-THY-mee-uh) – It means the inability to identify and express or describe one’s feelings.
And if you’re thinking, “Wait, that’s a thing?” — yes. It’s a thing. And I see it all the time with my clients. A girl goes on a date, and I ask after, “So how did you feel when you were with him?” And she says, “Fine. It was good.”
Okay… but how did you feel? Were you nervous? Comfortable? Bored? Lit up? Relaxed? Calm? Jittery? Happy?
Many of us were never taught the language of our inner world. We know how to evaluate a résumé — does he check the boxes? — but we don’t know how to check in with ourselves. And when you can’t name what you’re feeling, you definitely can’t communicate it to someone else.
The good news is it’s a skill that can be learned.
One tool I love is called the Feelings Wheel. It starts with a core emotion in the center — something basic like sad, angry, happy, scared. Then it fans out into secondary emotions — so sad might break down into lonely, guilty, disappointed. And then it goes even deeper into tertiary feelings — lonely might become isolated or abandoned. It takes that vague “I don’t feel great” and helps you pinpoint what’s actually going on.
So let’s say you came home from a date feeling “off.” The wheel might help you realize you’re not “off” — you’re disappointed, and specifically, you’re feeling let down because you had high expectations going in.
Here’s your homework this week: The next time someone asks how you’re doing, don’t say “fine.” Try one real word instead.
If you need help sorting out your feelings or your preferences, you know where to find me.
