Tonight marked the beginning of Passover.
The story of the Exodus has always been particularly meaningful to Dad, who, I believe, connected on a profound level with the tale of our people being lead from slavery to freedom.
Our passover celebrations have taken different forms over the years.
One at Mom’s house shortly after her accident we called the ‘sushi seder’ because of the prodigious amounts of raw fish she bought from a local vendor.
Another at Jack Weinstein’s home in California had the shortest seder I’ve ever attended. To wit, “They tried to kill us.
They didn’t succeed.
Tonight we were at dear friend Cheryl and Eddie’s house for yet another warm evening filled with a brisk seder ably led by Stewart Flack, Cheryl’s brother, an extended version of Dayenu, and an utterly delicious feast of matzah ball soup, chicken with olives and plums, eggplant and cucumbers salads, popovers and asparagus.
We of course washed the food down with wine and Cheryl and Stewart’s grandfather’s favorite brandy.
Each year I reflect on a different aspect of Passover.
Tonight it was about the need each year to renew the story, to reflect on it again and to discover in it the importance of ritual through repetition and seeing just a slightly different slice of the meaning of freedom each year.
We are fortunate.
Now onto the week of eating matzah and, this weekend, making matzah ball soup with the same recipe Grandma Hilda used when Dad was growing up.