It is almost impossible to put in words the joy I experience when eating matzah. It is something I don’t do often, purposefully, so as not to spoil the specialness of the moment. Perhaps it is also an unconscious homage to how my family used to eat it back in the Soviet days - infrequently, on special occasions, almost as a secret pleasure.
While the Soviet Union officially embraced multiculturalism, the reality was far from the truth and Jewish food, especially items deeply connected to religious practices, occupied a marginal space both publicly and privately, lurking at the back of cupboards and never openly displayed especially when non-Jewish guests were around.
My great grandma, Rosalia, would get big boxes of matzah sent to her from Moscow by her cousin, Tamara, and these were indeed always kept at the back of the cupboard.
When I was a child I took to matzah like a natural what I didn’t understand however was the unspoken need to keep that culinary preference a bit of a secret.
