My favorite Passovers all occurred when I was a child, before consciousness and expectations, and even notions of authenticity, came into play. Though even then I could recognize false gestures, as can most children, without necessarily knowing the words to describe them.
Why is this night different from all other nights?
This night is different because I, a person who equates working in the kitchen with working on a chain gang, cook most of the multicourse Passover meal. Singlehandedly and from scratch, I might add.
Although I\’ve been attending Passover dinners from the time I was knee-high to a scrupulously set seder table, there\’s something I\’ve never really thought about until recently: how does all this storytelling relate to me?
Shoshanna Levi* identifies with the Passover story of Jews traversing the \”narrow place,\” yetziat mitzrayim.
Last Pesach, her Orthodox family celebrated a plentiful seder in their spacious home in the West Valley.
I know it\’s getting really boring to talk ad infinitum about our dysfunctional families. But trust me, pilgrims — when it came to the Passover seder at the Shindler homestead in the Bronx, dysfunction didn\’t even begin to describe the chaos and torments of Gehenna that afflicted my small nuclear family.
My Passover seder was once again acclaimed by one and all as the best ever. Good thing, too, since, as befits a holiday filled with questions, anxiety had dogged my every step — right until the last moment.
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