Goyishe Guilt

I'm sorry.
I got your matzos.
I didn't know there would be a shortage in stores this week. And I'm not even Jewish.
So if you've had to do without, blame me.
It's not like I needed the matzos. I just like matzo brei.
Two weeks ago the local paper ran results of a taste-off of various matzos. Suspecting that the number-one favorite, available at Whole Foods, would probably disappear off shelves, we made a dash for a box.
Now I'll be honest. My limited contact with matzos makes Manischewitz a hands-down winner, strictly by familiarity. Ooh, the soggy, creamy, unthreatening, traif texture of these domestic crackers is almost part of my DNA. Like Carr's Table Water Crackers.
But when I read that these upscale Yehuda matzos, made in Israel, topped the food section chart, I had to try them.
So? (Oh, I have to say "nu" here. Can I say "nu"?) They're, um, fibrous. You know, difficult. Kind of like a cross to bear, but probably more like running away fast and the problem with the not-quite leavened bread, difficult in its own way, although freedom (good) and tradition. Tradition!
I would have been happy buying the Manischewitz, although now I'm suspecting that a whole lot of other shoppers, ones with more legitimate shopping needs, might have been, too. Doesn't matter in the long run, I suppose, because all the matzos, all brands, got scarfed up.
I shopped early, I got the Yehudas, and I wanted the matzo brei.
You might not believe this, but I think I'm good at making matzo brei.
Probably because I don't know what matzo brei is supposed to come out like.
Mine is always fluffy, tender, eggy, and totally not sweetened. No cinnamon. No jelly.
Scrambled eggs, buttery, mixed with puffy mounds of softened matzo.
What's the opposite of "oy vey"? They're that good.
I have asked Jewish friends whether they like matzo brei cooked soft or crispy, and the answer I usually get is "No."
Would you have liked some? Thought so. Nu? No recipe.
So please, no complaints about shortages.
Oy.