Pass Over Me

Passover at my parents’ household is really special… It is almost as important as the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, almost as important as the feast after Yom Kippur, and of course, much more significant than Chanukah (or any other minor holiday my people emphasize to measure up to our Christian brothers’ festivities). Crammed into my parents’ Brooklyn apartment are the immediate family members on my mother’s side, headed by my grandmother – the matriarch. Today, we will make our annual attempt to have a Seder.

Armed with a Russian-language instruction manual for a Seder, my grandmother tries to initiate the ceremony. Chicken soup is clearly not in any Haggadah (the instruction manual), but that will be our first course nonetheless. “It’s from a kosher chicken!” my mom notes proudly for the umpteenth time. “We’ve heard about the magic kosher chicken a million times already!” I say and immediately regret having said it. Did you know that the bullion from a kosher chicken comes out completely clear and tastes so much better? Now you do! “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you hear about it one more time.” she responds. Aaaah, finally, the Seder has begun.

I am famished and make sure that everyone I come in contact with knows just how hungry I am. My gentile husband inquires if “it’s one of those holidays you have to fast.” For someone who looks so good in a yarmulke, he should really know his holidays. Plus, let’s not forget that Passover was his Lord’s Last Supper.

Passover food is pretty awful. The women in my family really try, but there is just not much you can do. And the sight of gefilte fish alone makes my belly sink in disappointment. “Now we dip the parsley in the salt water to remember how we were slaves in Egypt and…” says my grandmother meaningfully and with feeling. “Yes, let’s do that…’cause we definitely don’t have any more recent sad events to recollect about,” I note. “You say that every year,” responds my mother, visibly annoyed. She is right, I do say it every year. Though to my defense, I say it only once a year, and I am on a roll today – I am acting out like a hormonal teenager and I cannot be stopped.

“Then we take a sip of the wine…” my grandma continues. “Is that the blood of Christian babies?” I ask my cousin. “No, we use the blood of Christian babies in the matzah mix,” he clarifies. “Now we break the middle matzah in half...” she tries to keep us on track before she is interrupted by my mother, who says that we’ve had enough and should just proceed with eating.

“Next year in Jerusalem!” exclaims my mother. “No, stupid, we don’t say that for Passover, that’s for Rosh Hashanah,” my aunt corrects her gently – my aunt is wrong, but it’s the confidence that you have in your voice that really counts. “Na zdorov’ye!” says my husband (he heard it from the movies, and although he knows it’s not correct, finds it amusing nonetheless). “Poyehali!” responds my dad enthusiastically. They’ll have to make do with polish potato vodka today, and if anyone is really watching upstairs, he’ll have to make do with our Seder.