We’re searching for a rabbi. We’re looking at the red tag rack at SteinMart, we’re pondering the pumpkin bagels—it’s the season!—and grumbling about the uniformity of American bagels—give me a Vilna bagel, misshapen and seasoned with salt and ash. We’ve got a moment between a root canal and a routine cleaning to call, iPhone-to-iPhone, a cousin who has a cousin who knows a cousin of a promising young rabbi frozen in Butte, and we’re asking each other, when, at Trader... Read more