I
know it’s so last week, but I can’t pass over the chance to tell you about something
that happened 5 minutes before the seder, two years ago.
We
were at the Jersey shul, living there, breathing the old ghosty air, trying to
inject some life.
We
were going to have 90 people for the community seder—a whopping achievement in
numbers, enthusiasm and hope.
As
Rebbetzin, Cook, and Bottlewasher, I had arranged for all the food, and the
morning of the seder, I schlepped to the Bergenfield Kosher Deli to pick it up.
You
cannot imagine what my Honda Pilot looked like.
Ungeshtupped.
Huge trays of
brisket, chicken, tzimmis, and potatoes, big bottles of soda, enormous packages
of matzoh, and enough Charoset, horseradish roots and the rest of the stuff to
make 20 seder plates. Cases of wine and bottles of grape juice. Cakes, fruit,
candies.
And
two 5-gallon buckets. One with Matzoh Balls.
And one with chicken broth.
Upstairs,
the social hall and kitchen were a frenzy of nerves. My two besties, Shulamit
and Rachel (Hebrew names only to protect the innocent)—who ALWAYS volunteered
for EVERYTHING—were in the kitchen accepting the enormous load-in of food, organizing
what goes where and when, heating the ovens, cutting veggies, arranging
platters and seder plates—you know, the whole geshikhte.
I
was doing the last minute table-set-up—the flowers, the bottles of wine, the
salt water, Elijah’s Cup. Oh, and helping a beleaguered Rabbi Sruli set up the
sound system for our family band.
The
twinkies, Johnny (boy) and Charlie (girl) were running around, ecstatic with
anticipation, in their cute new outfits.
I remember Johnny’s new oxford blue
button down shirt.
And
you remember that in the kitchen there were two 5-gallon buckets.
One with
chicken broth.
I
don’t know who screamed. Probably everybody.
I
made it into the kitchen, just in time to see the last yellow, greasy wave
sweeping over the floor.
The
Great Sea, split and standing firm, had crashed down again.
It
was horrible.
It
was Johnny.
(Boy.)
Apparently,
the 5-gallon bucket of broth had been placed on the industrial metal counter at
exactly blue-eye-level of this three year old.
Who
should not, it is true, have been allowed in the kitchen.
He
had been poking at it, at first tentatively, and then, when it actually moved a few millimeters, with determined
interest. A few millimeters. A few
millimeters more. Towards the edge of the counter.
Poke,
poke, poke, WHAM.
There
was no time to absorb the shock. The kitchen goddesses mopped and degreased,
mopped and degreased. I, sheepish
as a paschal lamb, called the dour shul president and begged him to stop at
Shoprite and buy out every can of Manischewitz chicken broth, with as much
haste as our ancestors in ancient Egypt.
And
then I went to pick up my trembling little boy, who was hiding, wound up in the
velvet curtain on the stage.
Within
minutes, the congregants and some of our friends started arriving, When it was
time for the Ma Nishtana, the kids all stood in the middle and sang, and many
of the grownups (including me) were crying. Despite the shaky start, the seder
was magical, and Sruli spoke beautifully and made the Hagaddah come alive.
Zachary
and Aaron played fabulously, and Ilana was beautiful and charming.
Most
importantly, the chicken soup with matzoh balls was delicious.
Everyone
said it was the best seder, ever. Even the president cracked a smile.
And,
at the very end, Shulamit and Rachel and I had a fifth cup of wine—just for us.
L’shana haba b’spa.
We
said that someday we would look back at the chicken soup debacle and laugh.
That
day, like the redemption, has not yet come.
Instead,
Sruli and I have moved to a better place, a wonderful synagogue where the president
herself is in the kitchen before every event, cooking and preparing with many
more kitchen goddesses.
There
was a Passover committee, and many congregants pitched in. I was not the one
who had to schlep to Boston to pick up the food. The seder here merited a real
caterer, so no one was allowed in the kitchen. And there were many other kids running
around with Johnny and Charlie.
Zachary
and Aaron played fabulously, and Ilana, and Aaron’s girlfriend Basia, were
beautiful and charming. Sruli brought everyone together with singing,
scholarship and laughter.
Most
importantly, there was an atmosphere of joy, of warmth and of family. If
anything had crashed, I think it would have been ok.
When
all the kids all stood up on chairs in front of a packed room of over 150
people to sing the Ma Nishtana, I cried. Some nights are different from all
other nights, and sometimes, those different nights are all the same.
And
I wished I could have had Shulamit and Rachel here, to sit like free women,
with me.
Back
last summer, when we had lived here for about two weeks, Johnny, who was five
then, took me by the hand.
“We
have a good life, in Maine,” he said.
I
startled, WHAM.
I
guess the old atmosphere had also spilled over into his little consciousness.
He
was appreciative of the contrast.
But
was hard to hear, and I picked up my happy little boy, silently crying into his
beautiful blond curls.
Had
He not brought us out of New Jersey and set us into this happy shul, and
provided for us this beautiful house, and given us a wonderful kindergarten,
and blessed us with a good life, here, in Maine, Dayenu.
Dayenu, Dayenu.
