Seder disorder
April 1, 2007
I'm really excited about my parsley, which is unusual enough during a reasonable time of day. At 2:30 before the meridiem, that imaginary line that delineates sanity from idiocy, I'm way past the threshold of idiocy; hence the enthusiasm for a simple, green herb. It can only be chalked up to delirium. But it is really beautiful parsley: Big, broad, dark green leaves, and a sweet, tangy taste. It's going to give a lovely flavor to the braised eggplant with yellow and orange tomatoes and garlic cloves. The one that's cooking right now at 2:30 a.m. My flan is still cooking, too. I tried the Sephardic Orange-Almond flan recipe from the New York Times. It should have been finished half an hour ago, but it's not in a hurry to set.
I, however, am in a hurry to settle into bed.
We are our usual pathetic pre-Passover selves this year. At least this year I have the excuse that my Mom and Abuela aren't here to help me, and I'm in a new kitchen without my familiar utensils. And up until today, I've had little help from my husband, who has to go to school tomorrow to make a presentation he's not prepared for in his torts class. It's all true, but it does not excuse waking up our little ones at 2:00 before the dreaded meridiem to perform the customary search for the Chametz. We are shameful, but at least we're consistently shameful! Year after year we promise ourselves that we'll have the place cleaned, kashered, and ready to go at a reasonable time. After the meridiem. Before the witching hour when I traipse into poor decision making, like starting a brand new untried recipe at midnight. One that involves braising and grinding almonds. And separating a dozen eggs.
Some things are never a good idea past midnight.
And then there's the cleaning. My husband and I laundered eleven loads of clothes, sheets, bedding, and towels. And we scrubbed the floors, vacuumed, and dusted. Every year we delude ourselves. No, really, dear, there isn't that much left to do, except for all of the little things that we forget about. Did you check the fridge? Did you remember to check the piano seat? Oh! We forgot...and so it goes, every year.
But it can wait until the morning.
I'm really excited about my parsley, which is unusual enough during a reasonable time of day. At 2:30 before the meridiem, that imaginary line that delineates sanity from idiocy, I'm way past the threshold of idiocy; hence the enthusiasm for a simple, green herb. It can only be chalked up to delirium. But it is really beautiful parsley: Big, broad, dark green leaves, and a sweet, tangy taste. It's going to give a lovely flavor to the braised eggplant with yellow and orange tomatoes and garlic cloves. The one that's cooking right now at 2:30 a.m. My flan is still cooking, too. I tried the Sephardic Orange-Almond flan recipe from the New York Times. It should have been finished half an hour ago, but it's not in a hurry to set.
I, however, am in a hurry to settle into bed.
We are our usual pathetic pre-Passover selves this year. At least this year I have the excuse that my Mom and Abuela aren't here to help me, and I'm in a new kitchen without my familiar utensils. And up until today, I've had little help from my husband, who has to go to school tomorrow to make a presentation he's not prepared for in his torts class. It's all true, but it does not excuse waking up our little ones at 2:00 before the dreaded meridiem to perform the customary search for the Chametz. We are shameful, but at least we're consistently shameful! Year after year we promise ourselves that we'll have the place cleaned, kashered, and ready to go at a reasonable time. After the meridiem. Before the witching hour when I traipse into poor decision making, like starting a brand new untried recipe at midnight. One that involves braising and grinding almonds. And separating a dozen eggs.
Some things are never a good idea past midnight.
And then there's the cleaning. My husband and I laundered eleven loads of clothes, sheets, bedding, and towels. And we scrubbed the floors, vacuumed, and dusted. Every year we delude ourselves. No, really, dear, there isn't that much left to do, except for all of the little things that we forget about. Did you check the fridge? Did you remember to check the piano seat? Oh! We forgot...and so it goes, every year.
But it can wait until the morning.
* * *
April 5, 2007
It's the day after, and as we do every year, we survived.
Passover in Chicago is very different from Passover in San Antonio. For one thing there is the Dunkin Donuts phenomenon. On Monday morning I took the three kids to Dunkin Donuts for the last chametz before the holiday began. The place was packed with Orthodox Jews with the same idea. Packed with more Jews than are in all of San Antonio. The line of cars for the drive-thru wrapped around the corner, and the line inside snaked around the length of the whole shop, and out the door. We waited anxiously, the 10:38 a.m. deadline when we were no longer permitted to eat chametz was 30 minutes away. People chatted amiably and nervously looked at their watches. After about 5 minutes, a reporter from Chicago Public Radio came in and started interviewing people. He asked me what we were going to order. The kids wanted the pink strawberry donuts, but a bagel sandwich sounded good to me. When I got to the front of the line and realized how little time I had to eat, I went with a donut.
Bad choice. I don't really like donuts. The kids giggled as I chocked the greasy thing down.
The fifth-grade girl in our carpool came over after the donut to be my "mother's helper". A mother's helper is a child older than your kid, but too young to be left alone with your child, who eases your burden by keeping your little ones entertained while you run around like a frenzied lunatic cooking for far more people than you've invited.
At least, that's my interpretation. She did a great job.
The kids watched the old animated "Hobbit" movie while I baked, sauteed, and roasted my heart out. We took a break to do the customary burning of the chametz. My husband always handled that task. He took the kids over to the synagogue and performed some sort of mysterious ritual that I was never initiated in. But my husband was in school, and I was left with this important task. We cheerily loaded up the kids into the stroller, and walked over to a synagogue where I saw a small fire in a metal smoker in the parking lot. Several men and boys in black suits stood around watching the fire, occasionally tossing in a chunk of bread, or some fuel for the flames.
I explained, to no one in particular, that my husband usually managed this task. I asked what I was supposed to do. The men barely looked at me, and one shook his head in the direction of the fire. I took this to mean we were to throw our bread in. My son and I began taking bits of bagel out of the little plastic baggies we hid them in, and gently tossed them into the smoking pile. Occasionally we missed, and a man would reach down, pick it up, and throw it in. When we finished throwing in our offerings, I looked around expectantly. Was this it? Was there something more I should do?
Once again, the men barely looked up from the pit of burning bread. Some muttered something I couldn't understand. Finally a young boy who looked familiar offered something more useful.
"Yeah, you have to say a prayer, but you can do it at home. It's in your prayer book."
Chastened and slightly embarrassed, we turned the stroller around, and headed back home to my cooking.
The meal was ready in plenty of time to straighten up. Chicken soup with fluffy matzah balls, gefilte fish casserole, which I forgot to serve, roast, roasted chicken with rosemary, potatoes, eggplant, zucchini, and asparagus were on the menu. The orange-almond flan never set quite right, but was delicious, and as a last minute treat, I made the chocolate and olive oil mousse from the same New York Times article. It was my first successful mousse ever, and it was superb, served with fresh blackberries.
The food was great, except for the undercooked potatoes, and the company was genial. I had a house full of law students, and the father of a law student who was visiting from Israel. My children were dressed in their new outfits, and on their best behavior. My little diva stole the show. She stood up next to her chair several times during the evening to belt out a song. Some came from the Haggadah, the special prayer book for the Passover seder, some came from her nursery school class. Our little Shirley Temple gave a stirring rendition of the four questions, followed by several songs about slavery in Egypt ("Bang, bang, bang, hold your hammers low"), the ten plagues ("Frogs here! Frogs there! Frogs were jumping everywhere!"), and a Passover counting song ("Who knows one? I know one!"). Baby sister followed her big sister's example with a boisterous singing of "Dayeinu" bouncing up and down on her chair.
My shy son held back the first night, but, without any guests on the second night, he railroaded the proceedings, and completely took over the seder. My husband sat back with a smile, and let him amaze us with his knowledge and brilliance.
On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a surprise. Another major difference between Passover in San Antonio and Passover in Chicago was the 40 degree drop in temperature accompanied by snow flurries. Never, in my 38 years of life, had I experienced anything but a hot Passover. Passover is a sweltering Spring holiday in Texas. Snow in April? Not even in January!
But when we awoke on Wednesday morning, and prepared ourselves for the three mile hike to the Sephardic synagogue, we were faced with an arctic blast.
"Are you sure you want to take the kids out in this cold?" Asked my Minnesotan husband, hoping to appeal to my Texan intolerance for cold. We're invited to the Rabbi's house for lunch, I reasoned. We can't just not show up! I responded, mortified.
We were back to the familiar sight of jackets, hats, and mittens. My heart sank as we plunged headlong into the wintery air. The baby cried the whole time until I picked her up and carried her, bundled in a blanket, for over a mile. My husband looked at me with a nasty look I was not used to, as if to say, "I told you so." But we made it and enjoyed a delicious, congenial, informative, and fun lunch. One thing that is the same in Chicago and San Antonio is the warmth, kindness, and great cooking of the Rabbi's wives. I felt right at home in her bustling kitchen, serving matzah ball soups, salads, and platters of steaming kugels of all types, sweet and savory. And one, lonely, Sephardic dish. She shrugged, and apologized. But it was all delicious and homey.
It's the day after, and as we do every year, we survived.
Passover in Chicago is very different from Passover in San Antonio. For one thing there is the Dunkin Donuts phenomenon. On Monday morning I took the three kids to Dunkin Donuts for the last chametz before the holiday began. The place was packed with Orthodox Jews with the same idea. Packed with more Jews than are in all of San Antonio. The line of cars for the drive-thru wrapped around the corner, and the line inside snaked around the length of the whole shop, and out the door. We waited anxiously, the 10:38 a.m. deadline when we were no longer permitted to eat chametz was 30 minutes away. People chatted amiably and nervously looked at their watches. After about 5 minutes, a reporter from Chicago Public Radio came in and started interviewing people. He asked me what we were going to order. The kids wanted the pink strawberry donuts, but a bagel sandwich sounded good to me. When I got to the front of the line and realized how little time I had to eat, I went with a donut.
Bad choice. I don't really like donuts. The kids giggled as I chocked the greasy thing down.
The fifth-grade girl in our carpool came over after the donut to be my "mother's helper". A mother's helper is a child older than your kid, but too young to be left alone with your child, who eases your burden by keeping your little ones entertained while you run around like a frenzied lunatic cooking for far more people than you've invited.
At least, that's my interpretation. She did a great job.
The kids watched the old animated "Hobbit" movie while I baked, sauteed, and roasted my heart out. We took a break to do the customary burning of the chametz. My husband always handled that task. He took the kids over to the synagogue and performed some sort of mysterious ritual that I was never initiated in. But my husband was in school, and I was left with this important task. We cheerily loaded up the kids into the stroller, and walked over to a synagogue where I saw a small fire in a metal smoker in the parking lot. Several men and boys in black suits stood around watching the fire, occasionally tossing in a chunk of bread, or some fuel for the flames.
I explained, to no one in particular, that my husband usually managed this task. I asked what I was supposed to do. The men barely looked at me, and one shook his head in the direction of the fire. I took this to mean we were to throw our bread in. My son and I began taking bits of bagel out of the little plastic baggies we hid them in, and gently tossed them into the smoking pile. Occasionally we missed, and a man would reach down, pick it up, and throw it in. When we finished throwing in our offerings, I looked around expectantly. Was this it? Was there something more I should do?
Once again, the men barely looked up from the pit of burning bread. Some muttered something I couldn't understand. Finally a young boy who looked familiar offered something more useful.
"Yeah, you have to say a prayer, but you can do it at home. It's in your prayer book."
Chastened and slightly embarrassed, we turned the stroller around, and headed back home to my cooking.
The meal was ready in plenty of time to straighten up. Chicken soup with fluffy matzah balls, gefilte fish casserole, which I forgot to serve, roast, roasted chicken with rosemary, potatoes, eggplant, zucchini, and asparagus were on the menu. The orange-almond flan never set quite right, but was delicious, and as a last minute treat, I made the chocolate and olive oil mousse from the same New York Times article. It was my first successful mousse ever, and it was superb, served with fresh blackberries.
The food was great, except for the undercooked potatoes, and the company was genial. I had a house full of law students, and the father of a law student who was visiting from Israel. My children were dressed in their new outfits, and on their best behavior. My little diva stole the show. She stood up next to her chair several times during the evening to belt out a song. Some came from the Haggadah, the special prayer book for the Passover seder, some came from her nursery school class. Our little Shirley Temple gave a stirring rendition of the four questions, followed by several songs about slavery in Egypt ("Bang, bang, bang, hold your hammers low"), the ten plagues ("Frogs here! Frogs there! Frogs were jumping everywhere!"), and a Passover counting song ("Who knows one? I know one!"). Baby sister followed her big sister's example with a boisterous singing of "Dayeinu" bouncing up and down on her chair.
My shy son held back the first night, but, without any guests on the second night, he railroaded the proceedings, and completely took over the seder. My husband sat back with a smile, and let him amaze us with his knowledge and brilliance.
On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a surprise. Another major difference between Passover in San Antonio and Passover in Chicago was the 40 degree drop in temperature accompanied by snow flurries. Never, in my 38 years of life, had I experienced anything but a hot Passover. Passover is a sweltering Spring holiday in Texas. Snow in April? Not even in January!
But when we awoke on Wednesday morning, and prepared ourselves for the three mile hike to the Sephardic synagogue, we were faced with an arctic blast.
"Are you sure you want to take the kids out in this cold?" Asked my Minnesotan husband, hoping to appeal to my Texan intolerance for cold. We're invited to the Rabbi's house for lunch, I reasoned. We can't just not show up! I responded, mortified.
We were back to the familiar sight of jackets, hats, and mittens. My heart sank as we plunged headlong into the wintery air. The baby cried the whole time until I picked her up and carried her, bundled in a blanket, for over a mile. My husband looked at me with a nasty look I was not used to, as if to say, "I told you so." But we made it and enjoyed a delicious, congenial, informative, and fun lunch. One thing that is the same in Chicago and San Antonio is the warmth, kindness, and great cooking of the Rabbi's wives. I felt right at home in her bustling kitchen, serving matzah ball soups, salads, and platters of steaming kugels of all types, sweet and savory. And one, lonely, Sephardic dish. She shrugged, and apologized. But it was all delicious and homey.
At the Rabbi's house I met a fellow Juban and his lovely wife. We traced our family trees back and made common connections. The Rabbi expounded on differences between Sephardic and Ashkenazi traditions (i.e. toothpaste on Shabbat is a no-no for Ashkenazim, but fine for Sephardim, a run-through of an empty dishwasher with soap kashers it for Sephardim but not Ashkenazim, and bar soap on Shabbat is also permissible for Sephardim, but not Ashkenizim). We left full of comfort foods and knowledge, and a few good laughs. In the end, it was well worth the miserable trek there.
* * *
Today my son had a piano lesson. He has improved dramatically. His petite, patient teacher is blown away by his intelligence (he gets it), his talent, and his hard work. she even blurted out at one point that he was her best student! I beamed at him, and sat in awe as he sat still in front of her piano with a look of concentration and determination I hadn't seen before. Who was this kid playing so smoothly and deftly at the piano? Who was this kid who didn't wiggle or squirm as he played through challenging pieces? Who was this kid who asked so many questions between songs? Oh, yeah. I recognized that one. But he shared my pride in his accomplishments, and that's just as it should be.
My children gave me a lot of naches this week. Their knowledge of the Passover seder, their mature behavior, my daughter's fearless singing in front of our guests, and my son's disciplined piano playing filled me with wonder and gratitude. Where did these amazing children come from? I am so thankful for their talents and their personalities. I am in awe of my kiddos, even the baby who's boundless energy and determination never seem to ebb. All I can say is Ptui, ptui, ptui, bli ayin ha ra'ah, hamza hamza, mashallah. And if that isn't enough, I'll bite my tongue till it bleeds.
Eew.
Passover is hard work, but it brings out our best. Everything is elevated to a higher level: the cooking, the cleaning, the hospitality, our behavior, and our learning. Of course, it also highlights everything we need to work on for the year to come: our organization, our neatness, and my patience. Passover is that fine line between diligence and obsessiveness, between naches and hubris, between godliness and goofiness.
Passover is my meridiem line separating the sanity from the sublime.
My children gave me a lot of naches this week. Their knowledge of the Passover seder, their mature behavior, my daughter's fearless singing in front of our guests, and my son's disciplined piano playing filled me with wonder and gratitude. Where did these amazing children come from? I am so thankful for their talents and their personalities. I am in awe of my kiddos, even the baby who's boundless energy and determination never seem to ebb. All I can say is Ptui, ptui, ptui, bli ayin ha ra'ah, hamza hamza, mashallah. And if that isn't enough, I'll bite my tongue till it bleeds.
Eew.
Passover is hard work, but it brings out our best. Everything is elevated to a higher level: the cooking, the cleaning, the hospitality, our behavior, and our learning. Of course, it also highlights everything we need to work on for the year to come: our organization, our neatness, and my patience. Passover is that fine line between diligence and obsessiveness, between naches and hubris, between godliness and goofiness.
Passover is my meridiem line separating the sanity from the sublime.
posted by law school widow at 2:31 AM
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