Passover

It's been a pretty good Passover. The seders were conducted by my father, who has the exact opposite aim of the learned sages whose story is retold in the Haggadah. He wants to conserve time rather than expend it, let alone, heaven forbid, go to the next day's morning Shma. For him, I edited the second half of the Seder into four choice paragraphs, and, halevai, everything was over by 9:30, leaving room for a smidgeon of cocktail-party chatter afterwards. My parents' guests were gobsmacked by the idea of my observing all eight days of Passover, and I had to assure them that my practice was not to the letter, but was merely an approximation, just like theirs.

For all that, Passover has been surprisingly easy to observe, at least by my admittedly relaxed standards. We use my Aunt Lucia's plates, etc., which are OK by virtue of having been unused for a year. We've been eating a lot of fruit and "spring salad," not to mention cheese. By staying milchig, we have done a credible job of keeping kosher, and Beth tries not to laugh at my mention of inspecting vegetables. I have not been big on matzoh this year, polishing off just under one box, but I love eating the burnt edges off it. I would love to get handmade shmuroh matzoh, which is always burnt; the boxed shmuroh matzoh, alas, is as pale as a yeshiva bochur.

All the same, I'll be happy when Passover ends tomorrow night; I'll scan the night sky for three stars, and then we'll have some pasta. Another year.