Pesach

It was about 9 p.m. In New Jersey when I began, as in years past, to create a blog about Chag Ha Matzot, Pesach. My less-than-trusted phone was beside me on my desk, and it alarmingly and abruptly began to buzz and flash red. I have an almost total lack of technological skills, a severe and persistent absence, which seemed to indicate that an emergency repair call to one of the computer geniuses in our family had to be initiated. But first I chose to actually try to determine what the phone-fuss was all about. It took all of a second to see that it was an air raid alert in Jerusalem, 6,000 miles from West Orange, where I sat. My phone had been programmed, by me, to indicate impending rockets when we were recently in that Holy City. I had neglected to disarm it.

I did not run into a shelter. But I greeted the disruption with terror nonetheless.

Jerusalem is precious to me, and so are the many family members who live there. I’ve known sirens there. And no matter how rational I try to be, determining odds, thinking about the miracle of the Iron Dome, I still feel the same anguish that I first met on Yom Kippur in September 1973, running down the three flights of stairs to the meklat, the shelter, in our French Hill apartment building, with our four little children, two of them toddlers. Even our dog, roused from a happy dream, shook like a fluttering leaf. The terror is hard to describe. You feel it in your guts. A quaking, an incomprehensible lack of understanding about why anyone would want to kill you and your children. They truly don’t have to like us, but why do they want to kill us?

I was not in Israel for the Gulf War in the early ’90s, but my aged parents were. They lived in Herzliya, in a building that had no shelter. Their civil defense instructions had been to use their bathroom, which had no windows, for shelter in case of alarms. Hence my mother and father, old by any standards, created an alternative emergency bed in their bathtub. The dangers inherent in such a primitive solution to the air raids were obvious to my sister and me. We begged them to stay put in their bed and not to risk the seemingly greater dangers of climbing into the tub. They didn’t listen. The sound of the sirens was so compelling that they could not stay put. That’s what those sirens are like. They inextricably pull you in, so much so that yesterday’s sirens, which did not result in more damage than rockets gone astray, caused 13 injuries to people in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem racing to the shelters.

Get New Jersey Jewish News's Newsletter by email and never miss our top stories Free Sign Up

The world news, especially as it applies to our two countries, is quite simply insane. Far too many politicians should be retired. They cause far more harm than good. Nonetheless, our lives and history have taught us that even when things are devastating, we still have to get ready for Pesach! We Jews know that the seders must be beseder, and that we will eat and chant and, yes, sing with gusto. May the Holy One lead us out of bondage! And may our seders be celebrated in a spirit of joy and thanksgiving and shalom, with remembrance and gratitude to those whose heroism allows us to commemorate the sacredness of the holiday.

And should you want to know, we’ve already started the preparations in our house. We’re too old to do it last minute and we’re not going to a hotel, so we are doing what we can from this moment on. And yes, you’ve read it correctly: this is a we, not a me! The old guy I married a while ago is in for a run. He’s the sous chef, the shopper, the table setter, and the general go-fer. Ever so slowly, we will get organized.

We’re not obsessive. We use disposable plates and cutlery for most of the holiday. It looks good and then we merely dispose! Who has the koach to wash dishes late at night after a meal for a couple of dozen of our beloveds? Not us.

Pesach cooking seems more and more complicated as the decades roll by. This year we’ll have two gluten-frees, one pescatarian, and one strict vegetarian. We’ll also have a series of preferences: Hard, cannonball kneidel. Soft, airy, light-as-a-feather kneidel. Pareve soup. Soup made with actual dead chickens.

And dare I mention that the so-called festive meal follows several hours of pontificating on the meaning of the Haggadah text, accompanied by all kinds of snacks that might well be called hors d’oeuvres, which fill up the participants, making them rather neutral about digging in to heavy kugels, stuffing, and much matzah at 11 p.m.? So all the focus on that enormous, calorie-laden feast is really potentially a waste of time, money, energy, and effort. May we do it again next year!

Some things we already have learned from past experiences. Shmurah matzah will be inordinately expensive and mostly broken. Most of the meal will remain uneaten. See paragraph above. The desserts, unless homemade, which they definitely will not be, will be disappointing and not worth the calories. They may, however, look tempting. My grandfather, Pop, used to say every Pesach that if the cake tasted good, it was chometz.

Of course, the wine will spill all over the tablecloth, usually at the beginning of the seder, to remove any shred of elegance instantly. The spiller will not stop apologizing until the seder has ended. Guilt is powerful. The seder will end much later than anticipated. Starting on Saturday night makes things more challenging, but hey, we’re Jews. We can do this! And, of course, as we approach Chad Gadya, someone will want yet another explanation for why we need to use non-iodized salt. Yawn!

Truly the best part of the seder is not the food or the eating rituals. In our family singing is the star. We sing our hearts out, sing with passion and joy and bring back the memories of seders past with gusto, joie de vivre, and plenty of volume. If we could dispense with the food and go straight to the music, that would be fine with me!

Of course, no seder is complete without the four questions. The small boy who will definitely not get the assignment is Jonah, aged one month today, as I write this. No matter how brilliant this baby is, I promise you there’ll be no mah nishtana coming from his direction this year. We could employ one of our two teenage granddaughters, but I can’t say for sure they’ll be good sports about it. Probably my husband, age 87, clearly not a young’un, will do his rendition in flawed Yiddish, and one of our guests will surprise us with a Spanish version. Last year a guest, a physician from New Delhi, not even Jewish, did it in an Indian dialect. Is that even kosher? I’m not sure — but we were flexible.

Here’s a Pesach wish for all of us, those in New Jersey, those in Israel, and those around the world: May your holiday be a celebration of peace, a sharing of a beautiful event in your family’s life. May all the hostages who languish in the tunnels of Gaza be returned home intact. May our chayalim become civilians. May those who carry rocket alarms on their phones disable them, as unneeded, henceforth and forevermore. And may those many politicians who threaten our democracy and abuse their power be silenced by the braver and insistent voices of freedom and courage.

And may the Jewish people, Am Yisrael, look forward to happier celebrations in the years to come.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. 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