April 17, 2008
My family, all native Israelis, only do one seder a year, as is the custom of the Jewish state, even when we’re all living in the United States.
In the past, these get-togethers were raucous, unruly, and downright disorderly affairs. Picture Israeli Knesset debate multiplied by American heavy metal concert.
But whatever they lacked in restraint they made up for in constancy. They were always at my parents’ house, always attended by the whole family, always capped by my mother’s matza fudge layer cake.
And they always revolved around bringing home new boyfriends for parental inspections.
In fact, there was one exceedingly busy period, following my college graduation, in which a trio of brand-spanking-new, nice Jewish boys arrived each year, bearing hopeful gifts of fresh flowers (typically daffodils, my favorite) and kosher-for-Passover jelly rings (cherry, usually).
Over the last 10 years, however, we’ve all grown up and moved away — and apart.
Recent seders have become complicated, consisting of traffic-choked treks to the labyrinths of the five boroughs, or complex negotiations involving obligations to various in-laws.
We all, sadly, tend to do our own thing.
My sister packs up her family of four in a rented, car-seats-included minivan and schleps to Long Island.
My mother, now living points south, hosts an intimate seder for three — four if you count the cat. My father traveled to Israel last year for a mass family seder with cousins I haven’t seen in decades.
One year, my husband and I ate matzo ball soup from a jar and watched the Ten Commandments.
The Passover seder, once so comfortingly predictable, has become bewilderingly unhinged.
But this year is different from all other years.
This year, Passover is on a Saturday night. Which makes it suddenly convenient for a new form of family.
This year, my husband and I are hosting a seder at our house for our non-Jewish friends.
My Jewish friends tell me this is a mitzva. I think of it as a dinner party with four glasses of wine.
My husband is thrilled that, for the first time, he gets to sit at a seder table where he knows more than anyone else. He pores over his user-friendly Haggada (I call it Passover for Dummies) in pure exaltation.
As for me, I’m delighted with the exceptional Exodus that has brought me to this Passover, so different from all the other Passovers I’ve known except in one way: We’re still honoring the enduring bond of old connections, whether it’s the dear guests at my table, or my mother’s matza fudge layer cake upon it.
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