Men tracht und Gott lacht is Yiddish for "Human beings plan and God laughs," or in the current idiom: Life happens.

Here was my plan for Thursday, the first day of the month of Elul: Spend the morning with meetings and appointments, swim, work at the computer and then walk in the later afternoon. I had an unexpectedly free evening, both my kids were away all week at camp and my husband (a nurse who works second shift) had the night off, so I (uncharacteristically) made reservations to go out to dinner and see a play with him.

Just as I was about to put my exercise plan into gear (i.e., change into my bathing suit), the phone rang. It was the camp nurse. My son was feeling miserably sick and she advised us to pick him up and get him home into some air conditioning. I hung up the telephone and cried. Not for myself, I explained to my husband later. For my son. (My husband thought at least a few of the tears could have been shed for our dashed plans.)

The camp was four hours away. It was a beautiful, scenic drive, but still...

The next afternoon, after spending the night with our son in an air-conditioned motel, and assuring ourselves that he was on the mend, we returned him to camp. He wasn't in tip-top shape, but then again, neither were we.

I'll spare you the details of our long drive back through lashing rain, tornado warnings ("Anyone driving in a car through this listening area is advised to exit the car, lie down in a ditch and cover your head"), traffic jams, accidents, and road work. Forget the scenery: we needed to get back before Shabbat, which begins 18 minutes before sunset. Well, we made it, but just barely. Our four-hour trip had stetched to nearly six.

Luckily, we had food. Pointing out to my husband that we had prepared no food for Shabbat (when we don't cook), I had looked at the map and suggested that we stop off in Monticello (a largely Hasidic religious enclave in the Catskills) to look for Kosher take-out.

Success! We found a place called Coby's Corner; on Thursday nights and Fridays, they turn their large back banquet hall into a self-service Shabbat take-out extravaganza. There, arrayed on long tables covered in white plastic, were: chickens prepared in a variety of ways, kugels, rice and barley dishes, gefilte fish and whitefish and herring and salmon, meatballs and stuffed cabbage, roasted potatoes and vegetables, fried Morroccan cigars, kishka, knishes, franks in blankets, cole slaw and potato salad, pickled red cabbage, spiced chickpeas, chopped liver and chicken soup (noodles and matzo balls extra.)

I was at once thrilled and alarmed. Is it any wonder Jews have issues with food? Before me, I saw the evidence. Shabbat, holidays, family, celebration, love and loss - for us, it's all connected with food. Lots of it. Not all of it so healthy, either.

I filled plastic containers and tins, shoved a couple of chickens into a foil-lined bag, and began making my way to the register. Just then, my husband came in. His eyes widened. "It's just the two of us, you know," he reminded me "the kids are both at camp." I pointed out that we could have one feast on Friday night and then eat completely different food on Saturday (instead of the usual leftovers from the night before.) He could take some of the food to work and we would have some more for when the kids came home. Or I could freeze it.

To summarize: On Thursday, I sat in a car instead of swimming and walking. On Friday, I bought food for a small army. Tomorrow, the kids come home. I'll make them show me how to use WiiFit!