We have just about run out of ‘this time last year’s’. For a full 365 days, while attending birthday parties on Zoom, family get-togethers on Zoom and big communal events on Zoom, we were able to recall those halcyon days of 2019-2020 when ‘meeting up somewhere new’ meant more than merely shifting rooms with your laptop or changing your virtual background.
But now, as we move deeper into the month of March, this time last year is basically the same time as this time this year, the pandemic has dragged on for longer than any of us could possibly have imagined, and with Pesach on the horizon, it’s a pretty miserable prospect for most.
One of my own final pre-Covid-related ‘this time last year’ moments came when I clicked open my ‘Pesach 2020’ spreadsheet recently, ready to work out my shopping list and plan my cooking for our second Passover-for-three. Each of my carefully annotated menus contained a little note reminding me of how many I was cooking for at each meal – some meals that were, at the time of planning, intended to be spent with our son, daughter-in-law and baby grandson, others with friends, and some with both. None of those plans came to fruition of course, and the last time I gave my grandson anything approaching a proper cuddle was Purim 2020.
Until I opened up that spreadsheet, my modus operandi for Pesach 2021 had basically been, pretend it isn’t happening until you absolutely can’t pretend anymore. But then, as I glanced over the list of favourite recipes – chocolate truffles with coloured sprinkles for dessert at the first Seder, Pesach ‘lockshen’ (soup noodles) made out of paper-thin rolled and sliced omelettes – something strange happened. I started to get excited.
Despite the fact that once again it would be just the three of us, no family meals or exciting chol hamoed trips – I love Pesach! Once the hard work of cleaning and ‘changing over the kitchen’ is behind me, the festival of Passover invariably morphs me from career-minded professional who does the minimum amount of housework possible, into some sort of bizarre domestic goddess who makes pancakes for breakfast and never serves a main meal unless it’s comprised of three courses including soup and a homemade dessert.
Of all the Jewish festivals, Pesach is the one with the greatest weight of tradition behind it – and unlike the strange Covid-fuelled world we are currently living in, it’s one where ‘this time last year’ being exactly the same as ‘this time this year’ is a comfort and a joy.
Every family has its own customs and rituals, some handed down for generations, others newly created but just as cherished. In our own family, we instigated a new tradition of handing out sweets during the Maggid portion of the Seder, to children who asked good questions about our people’s Exodus from Egypt, or who gave good answers. And while the chocolate truffle with sprinkles recipe is my mother’s, she never served them for Seder night dessert and I absolutely always do.
Another family tradition is just two generations old, but every single one of my Grandma Suri’s children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren observes it as carefully as if it were ‘Torah from Sinai’ – and that’s the tradition of the pink egg. Family lore tells it that a Sephardi cousin of my maternal grandparents introduced them to the concept of slow-cooked boiled eggs, that turned a beautiful soft pinky-beige colour after spending hours gently simmering in a saucepan and had a taste unlike any other egg you’ve ever eaten. My Grandpa Jack decided they would be a good option for jazzing up the Seder night boiled egg in saltwater and ever since then, ‘pink eggs for Pesach’ is a concept that every person who marries or is born into the family understands is simply non-negotiable.
Growing up, we almost always spent Seder with Grandma Suri and Grandpa Jack; extra-jolly as a result of his four cups of wine, Grandpa would usually end up singing ‘There was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly’ after the similarly structured ‘Who Knows One’, and then, rather more inexplicably, the Chattanooga Choo Choo. Grandpa was a Holocaust survivor who passed away when I was only 15, and to this day I can’t hear either of those two songs without tears prickling my eyes.
After the Seder, my parents walked home but my sister and I would get to sleep over. Grandma Suri would always have laid out a brand-new nightdress or pair of pyjamas on the pillow for us, and when I recall those Seder nights lying cosily in bed listening to the dishes clinking as she tidied up downstairs, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace and security. That’s why, since my own children were born, I’ve always bought whichever of them are at home for Pesach new pyjamas to put on after the Seder – and this year, although he won’t be with us, I’m wrapping up and posting a cute little pair for my grandson as well.
I know that, for so many people, the thought of a second Pesach spent in very different circumstances from what they are used to, is too sad to contemplate. I only hope that the memories and traditions of Pesachs-past can spark enough joy to carry us all through this beautiful holiday – and that next year, we can once again celebrate together with our loved ones.
Chag kasher v’sameach!
