Ah, Passover. The time of year when Jewish families everywhere come together to eat, remember their ancestors’ plight, and create more plight. For the unacquainted – the holiday centers around two “seders” (dinners) where the family reads aloud from the Haggadah – a book that says how much Pharoah sucked. And no one can eat until about ¾ of the way through, which, as you can imagine, means the bitter herbs on the seder plate aren’t the only Bitter Herb at the table.
Come on, there’s probably a man named Herb at this seder.
Based on a 24-year longitudinal study (one subject: my own family), I can predict what will be said at my (and probably your/your Jewish friends’) table this year, down to the last plaguing remark.
“You look good… Stay that way.”
The family hasn’t seen me since Chanukah. And thanks, maybe those New Year’s Resolutions paid off. But… wait. I see what you did there. Good thing I’m about to go on a no-carb diet for the week (Passover dietary restrictions = irresponsible Atkins). Also begs the question of why my uncle was evaluating my appearance in the first place.
“You need to get married because I am going to die soon.”
Bubbe (Grandma), is not sick, just convinced. The fact that I took zero interest in the food preparation just exacerbated her dismay in my uninterest in domestic affairs. (I live around the corner from, like, eight delis. When will I ever need to know how to make charoset?)
Usually accompanied with a J-Date and why-aren’t-you-on-it discussion. Herb’s daughter Rachel met her husband on J-Date. And Herb’s other daughter met Amanda. But to each his own.
“I can have a glass of wine and not be an alcoholic, Mom.”
This will be said by my alcoholic cousin. You’re actually supposed to drink a total of four cups of wine at designated points during a seder for, you know, for religious reasons. To represent plagues wrought upon the Egyptians. Or something. My cousin goes the more symbolic route and imbibes the entire Red Sea.
“That’s not good for the Jews.”
In my Great-Uncle Morrie’s world, there are only two types of events: those that are “good for the Jews” and those that are “bad for the Jews.”
Winter Olympics? Good for the Jews. Earthquake in Japan? Bad for the Jews.
Opinions usually accompanied by Xeroxed copies of articles cut from newspapers that agree with him. It’s like that generation’s version of a web link; we at the table are the email recipients.
“Come on, please just read it and get it over with.”
Whose idea was it to assign the “Four Questions” passage to the youngest child? The ritual is such: we reach that passage, the kid gets embarrassed that he doesn’t know the Hebrew well enough, and he/she refuses to speak. We prod, encourage, implore, all the while starving because we have not yet been allowed to eat what smells good in the kitchen. Finally, I just end up reading the freaking Four Questions. Mind you, I am the oldest of the cousins.
My record is all four in both Hebrew and English – thirty-six seconds.
“Oh, look. Jeremy found the Afikoman.”
The “Afikoman” is a piece of matzah that Zaidie (Grandpa) hides somewhere in the house prior to everyone’s arrival. Whoever finds it gets a prize, usually a five-dollar bill. Jeremy ALWAYS finds the Afikoman. He’s like a bloodhound. Either that, or he made some kind of a kickbacks deal with Zaidie. One year I thought I found the Afikoman, but it was another piece of matzah that Jeremy had hidden as a decoy.
“Let’s skip to the festive meal.”
Let’s be honest, no one really gets past “Chad Gadya,” the song that has something to do with a goat. It’s got, like, a million verses, that only Aunt Sherrie knows. It’s around this point that Bubbe’s burnt-brisket anxiety kicks in and Now-Drunk Cousin starts getting vocal about how he’s switching to being a Baha’i. Fine! Jess – go get the matzo ball soup. Why? Jeremy is closest to the kitchen. Because I’m a girl? Yes.
“You’re not going to at least try it?”
Whichever non-Jews are present will most likely be disgusted upon the sight of gefilte fish – a Jewish dish that’s a ball of mashed up fish. It’s actually good, but it doesn’t look like it would be. Same with a lot of Jewish dishes – maror looks like something the cat threw up. But if you refuse Bubbe’s gefilte fish, that’s like a rejection of Bubbe’s entire being. Everyone loves her gefilte fish. The Pinkus’ down the street asked for her recipe.
Would you eat the gefilte fish? Let us known in the comments below! And to all our Jewish friends have a Chag Sameach! If you're not a Jew wish your Jewish friends a Chag Sameach! Prounounced KHAHG sah-MEHY-ahkh. It means "joyous festival" - you'll win major brownie points with their parents.
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