I have always been the proudest of Jews, a Red Sea pedestrian (I know it’s clunky, but it’s also irresistible in a column about Pesach) with an abiding interest in our history and culture, but for various complicated familial reasons, I grew up with zilch Jewish custom and practice. And even though I now work for this newspaper, I have never really caught up with the religious side of things, as our Judaism editor will, I am sure, readily testify: barely a day passes without my asking him about some point of Jewish law or practice.
Every time I bring out the Haggadot, Elijah’s cup and the colony of plastic frogs, I am reminded that I need to brush up on some key rules and rituals
The truth is I am not intrinsically interested in the nuts and bolts of faith. I have hosted a Seder every three years since 2006 and every time I bring out the Haggadot, Elijah’s cup and the colony of plastic frogs, I am reminded that I need to brush up on some key rules and rituals: why we eat matzah leaning to the left; the reason romaine lettuce passes as a bitter herb but parsley does not; what actually constitutes chametz.
And even after I’ve swotted up, a faux pas always creeps in. The year before last, for example, it emerged at the Seder table that my master baker mum, who is always on dessert duty at our family gatherings, had added oatmeal to the delicious flourless brownies she had made for the meal. We still ate them, of course. Although I enjoy a bit of observant cosplay every Pesach – it’s the only meal of the year when I never as matter of principle, mix milk and meat, at which we quaff kosher wine and for which, if I’m feeling flush, I might splash out on a kosher chicken – for me, the real joy of this Jewish festival is its message. I love Pesach because it celebrates freedom and reminds us Jews that we should stand against injustice and oppression. And while I am not saying that declining my mum’s oatmeal-flecked brownies would be exactly unjust, neither would it be kind.
I also appreciate the family conversations we have around the Seder table. My father, a retired history teacher, is particularly brilliant when it comes to discussions on slavery. And I don’t mean our emancipation from slavery in ancient Egypt, for which he says there is no archaeological evidence.
I might not know, without googling, why we need to drink at least four cups of wine at the Seder table, but thanks to Dad I can tell you, without googling, that 167 of the world’s 195 countries enslave an estimated 45 million people, and that the worst offenders are North Korea and several Middle Eastern and African countries.
I did not, as I have in previous years, forget to hide the afikomen but we did all forget to look for it on the night.
So why did I begin hosting Seders 19 years ago, after being raised in a home where there had been none? The answer is my daughter’s primary school. When she was in the reception class of Simon Marks Jewish Primary, in Hackney, I met two mothers who, for their own complicated familial reasons, also didn’t have a Seder to go to that year (if I remember correctly, Susie had never been to one) and we hit upon the idea of a threesome, so to speak. The Other Karen went first (she actually knew what she was doing), the following year it was my turn and then it was Susie’s.
And this explains why I make Seder only once every three years. We have pretty much kept to this rhythm every year since, even managing to Seder together on Zoom twice during lockdown (when, if nothing else, the cooking was easy).
We have, in short, created our own Pesach tradition and, thereby, done our little bit for Jewish continuity which, as JC readers know, happens in all manner of weird and wonderful ways.
Last year, the arak year, as it will go down in Glaser lore, was especially weird and wonderful. I did not, as I have in previous years, forget to hide the afikomen but we did all forget to look for it on the night. It turned up several months later under a pile of papers in my son Aaron’s bedroom. Oh, well.
