Pesach musings

Pesach always makes me hungry. Matzah with liberally spread salted butter is not exactly a gourmet meal, but to me, it’s just delicious and I cannot get enough of it.

I know that it has no redeeming features at all. It’s high in cholesterol, very fattening, and not very filling. So why do I, Miss Piggy herself, dream of it — luckily only during Pesach. I can do without all the other delicacies but never the matzah with a thick — never thin! — coating of butter. A meat meal prohibits it, but after all, I am the family chef, that empowered human who decides that we’re going to focus on chalavi, dairy, for the duration of the chag. A little bit of meat may sneak in, but I could exist solely on the matzah.

So why does this chatter make me think of Donald T? Truthfully, I think of him every day, but why when I’m thinking about matzah? Perhaps it’s because if I’m Miss Piggy, he’s Mr. Pig. Rumor has it that he drinks 12 cans of Diet Coke a day and exists by fine dining on fast food burgers. This is, after all, a classless man, a no-class guy, who cannot control his appetites, whether they be for cheap women, low quality food, or any other kind of flagrant behavior. Sadly, his present trial is not on television, although the holiday would make steady hypnotic gazing at his corpulent body on the screen in our den religiously forbidden anyway. But I read about the trial in the newspaper, and while it is missing the glower — that anyway I know so well that I can easily conjure it up — it’s the best I can do.

Of course he tells anyone who wants to listen that he shouldn’t be on trial at all. Luckily for me he’s not my husband! But if you really want to know whether he should be on trial, seek out his wife, Melania, the never-to-be-seen woman who was betrayed during her one and only pregnancy by the guy who always betrays everyone he knows in pursuit of self-glorification. Of course she sticks around, but she is simply out of sight. She came to America as an immigrant, the kind of person who Donald likes to constantly malign, then brought her parents to New York, illegally I hear, and married the money, and the mobster. I never said she’s above the fray! But she’s clearly not a first lady for the American history class. She marches to her own drummer — and it’s not Donald with the drumsticks.

Today is probably the most telling day of his life! His lawyers are representing him at the Supreme Court (and I have to admit that this reader does not find them at all supreme) to answer the question of whether Donald can indeed murder, drop bombs, steal, or do any other despicable things without punishment. If Donald were Eichmann or Hitler, he wants you to know, he cannot be charged for whatever crimes he did, or will do. You may think this is crazy, like I do, but the court will deal with this as if it were presented by a normal human being, not a misguided lunatic. This is known as immunity, and it should come as no surprise that Trump yearns for it. No one knows better than he that he needs it. Badly!

After all, isn’t Donald the kind of guy who inspires trust? Isn’t he a nice guy, a law-abiding, highly moral man a nation would be proud to call Sir! Gevalt!

I am compelled to change gears since I have something very nice to say, and it’s definitely not about the Trump-ster, which means Trumpmonster.

We just came back from a very quick but definitely delightful trip to Potomac, where we met the new two-week-old young lady, Yael Hannah. She’s a very little babe, already being climbed on by at least the younger of her three brothers. I know I’ve called her a princess, and for sure that’s what she will be, but she’s also going to have to grow up tough. The brothers will remember only some of the time that she’s just a little puff of a girl. Those other times she’ll learn to fend for herself. Teaching her some tricks yesterday was cousin Sophie, a big girl already six months old. Truly Yael now is focusing only on being fed and held, but we all know what happens with babies. They grow and grow and grow and become real people. Just look at Sophie. Six months ago she was five pounds. Now she’s a real mensch with a personality and puffy cheeks and lots of abilities to grab, and pull, and smile, and laugh.

A baby’s first year is one of life’s true miracles. For us, this is new baby 24. And it is still a miracle! For all 24 of those babies, and still counting, I need America to reject the national destroyer. You know who I mean.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of six. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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