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I'M NOT SURE whether Karla, my younger sister, eats to com- pete or competes to eat.

But, like me, she likes to do both.

She competes at tennis. And--when she's not powering up on Gatorade and energy bars--she eats fresh-made oatmeal-raisin cookies, which she assures me are quite healthful.

But everything takes a back seat to the Jewish equivalent of French toast: fried matzo or matzo brei.

I caught up with Karla by phone in late March. She had just returned to D.C. from Miami, where she and her boyfriend and fellow tennis-lover, Randy, had gone to watch the Sony Ericsson Tennis Open.

When I asked about the tourney, Karla sounded strangely disinterested.

She seemed less intrigued by the Open than by her and Randy's daily foray to Jerry's Famous Deli on Collins Avenue in South Beach.

Several years ago, Karla and I vacationed in Florida with our younger brother, Ken. We had a glorious time reminiscing one afternoon at Jerry's while gorging on a smörgåsbord of Jewish soul food, including blintzes, knishes, latkes and chopped liver.

Now, filled with envy and longing, I asked Karla what she had to eat at the deli. "Fried matzo," she said. "I forgot how much I loved it! That's all I had!"

Some Jewish restaurants, such as the Parkway Deli in Wheaton, Md., keep matzo brei on the menu year-round for people like my sister and me who can't get enough of the stuff during the starch-starved Passover holiday.

Matzo is thin, crisp, cracker-like bread, which Jews eat in many inventive ways during the eight days of Passover.

Passover commemorates the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt and their deliverance from slavery. It's the holiday of unleavened bread, the bread that didn't have time to rise--hence the restrictions on eating flour.

Non-Jews often find no use for matzo, likening its taste to that of corrugated cardboard, to which it bears an uncanny resemblance.

In a holiday filled with ritual foods, matzo is the oldest symbol of salvation in the Passover Seder. In fact, the Seder can't end until the last piece of matzo has been recovered from its ceremonial hiding place and eaten.

My memories of matzo are long and fond. My dad's mother, Nanny Ann, used to make matzo brei for us whenever she visited.

She was stout and matronly, given to much fretting and hand-wringing unless she was busy in the kitchen.

"You kids must be starving," she'd exclaim, even if we had just finished our breakfasts. She'd quickly don a full-length apron and start boiling water to soak the matzo boards. Then, she'd produce a proprietary jar of chicken schmaltz, or fat, with which to fry the matzo-and-egg mixture.

Nanny Lil, my mom's mom, and a former school-teacher, didn't concern herself with cooking. After her husband died, she retired to Miami Beach and spent her days playing mah-jongg and canasta. Her diet consisted entirely of fresh-squeezed orange juice, melba toast, Sanka and Sen-Sen breath perfumers.

She liked to bake, though, and delighted us with her butter cookies and mandelbrot, or almond biscotti. One Passover, inspired by a neighbor's efforts, she and my mom made bagels out of matzo meal that were almost edible.

Growing up, Karla, Ken and I would break off pieces of matzo--always a pantry item--for a snack.

We'd have it plain or dress it up with Breakstone's whipped butter or, better yet, peanut butter and jelly.

Today, aside from being my favorite tennis partner, my sister fulfills another important role in my life--cooking rabbi.

Her culinary resume, however, has a few holes. She can prepare salmon in myriad ways, but often the simplest things seem beyond or, perhaps beneath, her.

So when I told her that fried matzo has always been my most trusted backup for dinner, she seemed amazed. Though she's quick to ask for cooking instructions, I suspect fried matzo is a dish she'll rarely cook at home.

I told Karla I'd be in D.C. in late April and asked if I should bring my tennis racket.

"I'd rather hit the Parkway Deli," she said.

Kurt Rabin is a copy editor at The Free Lance-Star and can be reached at krabin@freelance star.com.

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