A Jewish mother’s guilt is rarely absent, but I feel it even more keenly at this time of year. That’s because I did a terrible thing eleven years ago: I gave birth to my son, during Pesach.
It was the fifth day to be precise and I remember it well, not just because it was one of the happiest days of my life (yeah, yeah, there’s that birth of a boy stuff), but also because, having been horribly ill with hyperemesis for the previous nine months and unable to eat, my mother brought her special home-made Pesach rolls to the hospital. I devoured them like a woman possessed.
Pesach in 2005 was late. As it is this year. This means that my son has been rather fortunate over the last ten years of his life: not all his birthdays have fallen during the dreaded eight days. This year, however, there’s no escaping his fate: a birthday celebrated with not a piece of bread in sight, nor (and this is hard for a boy who likes to bake) the possibility of rustling up our usual favourites of rocky road, lemon cake and more.
We all know there are Pesach alternatives, but we also all know (don’t we, really?) that there is literally no Pesach food (and I include eggs in saltwater, despite the annual conversations which attempt to talk these up as if they are some kind of delicacy) which is better than non-Pesach. And that goes beyond the birthday staples: pizza, pasta, burgers, bagels, cakes and biscuits, to the more mundane everyday items such as peanut butter, marmite and hummus.
