Passover, as we all know, is a key religious holiday. The problem is, the seder often lasts more than two hours. Too long for our active toddler. My solution: Host a toddler Passover. I suggested the idea to my husband several months ago. He agreed. We invited another couple with a toddler. Done.
I was quite relaxed. I had in mind a menu of recipes that I’d made a couple of times before. I had a plan for cleaning the house. The associate rabbi and the director of our synagogue’s nursery school had helped us to create a short and meaningful ritual, perfect for little kids. Everything was on track.
But then one night, at midnight, I was brushing my teeth. As I went over the dishes in my head, I knew that something was wrong. Honey cake for dessert at a seder? Thirty seconds later, a grim realization set in: I had never cooked a Passover dinner. As the Chief Maker of Holidays and Special Family Occasions in our household, I just assumed that I had.
Two weeks to Passover and I had no menu. A Rosh Hashanah meal wouldn’t cut it. I had already airily announced to our friends, “We do a Sephardic thing.” I stopped brushing my teeth.
Did I mention that I’m Christian? I’ve been to seders, but I’m no expert. My husband, an Ashkenazi Jew, doesn’t know anything about Sephardic Passover meals. When I have an opportunity to cook Jewish food, I choose Sephardic dishes. I never have to compete with the memories of Grandma’s food. It was a strategy that had worked brilliantly until that night. I was entering uncharted territory.
I needed to find a definitive Sephardic Passover meal. I frantically flipped through Sami Tamimi and Yotam Ottolenghi’s “Jerusalem: A Cookbook.” I Googled “Ottolenghi Passover.” The only item I found was a complicated fish dish. Dispirited, I went online and ordered lightweight pajamas for my son, just so I could have a feeling of accomplishment.
The next day, my husband and son went out. I started to look for recipes online. I found Cafe Liz, a kosher vegetarian blog from Tel Aviv.
A few hours later, the boys were back. I had discovered Joan Nathan’s “Countdown to a Passover Seder.” I started to print out recipes.
Over three hours in, my husband seemed bemused by the recipes scattered everywhere.
“Remember we’re slaves coming out of Egypt, not free people going back into slavery in Egypt.”
“Fine, but we still have to eat.”
Later, I asked my husband about the usual number of dishes besides the main entree.
“Tzimmes and kugel. Matzah ball soup and gefilte fish.”
“That’s it? That’s just four things. That’s not enough.”
“That was for 20 people.”
“Look, our guests are bringing the lamb. We can’t just have four dishes.”
“Here we go again.”
My husband claims that we always end up with too much food. All I know is that in my tradition, abundance equals hospitality. Taking the time and making the effort to prepare special foods is an important aspect of family celebrations. I remember my aunt, for example, flying to visit us in Chicago. Her suitcase held slick-backed mustard greens and speckled butter beans — rare finds at the farmers market and a reminder of home.
It was finally time to select the recipes that were going to make it into our seder meal. “What about Boulettes de Poisson en Sauce Tomate?” I asked. “What’s that?” “Fish balls in tomato sauce.” “No.”
And so it went. “Moroccan-inspired Tzimmes” went into the “no” pile, as my husband said tzimmes is too sweet. Sadly, a fried artichoke recipe also went into the “no” pile. Too much could go wrong. Mina was a keeper, although we hadn’t settled on a filling.
Our Persian-Jewish neighbor became my guide and menu vetter. “Do you know what to put on the plate? Do you know where to buy it?” she asked. “Don’t worry about anything; I will help you.”
I took her up on her offer this week. As my son played, she showed me in her kitchen how to make the Persian rice with a crunchy crust. Complicated, but I’m going to try it. She gave me a Persian haggadah. She showed me what should go on the seder plate and where to put it. Some things are different. Vinegar, not salt water. Celery. A chicken wing rather than a lamb shank.
I shared the recipes I had decided upon, hoping that I was in the ballpark. But instead she said, “We never make leek fritters. What is this mina? It’s looks like lasagna.”
She told me that it’s all according to taste, varying from country to country, sometimes even within the same country. I was once again in the land of interpretation.
Then I realized that because this is a Jewish holiday, that’s exactly where I should be.
Darcine Thomas is a writer and producer in Los Angeles.
