Passover Mania
It happens every year when March rolls in. On the surface, it looks as if better days are coming. Winter, with its short gloomy afternoons, is almost over, and the promise of spring hangs in the air.
Just as I am ready to pull myself off the couch, the very couch that now carries the unmistakable imprint of my body. Just as I prepare to open the windows, breathe deeply, and feel light enough to float in the returning sun, that is when it hits me.
The blow.
There are only two weeks left until Passover.
Passover, mind you, is a highly intricate affair. The three sacred components of this spring holiday are what I call the three Fs: Family, Food, and yes - Cleaning. I know cleaning does not begin with F, but for its impact on the holiday, it certainly should.
First, I clean the house from top to bottom. Then I prepare enough food to feed a small army. And then they come. The sandstorms.
When I lived in the desert, Passover was always preceded by seasonal sandstorms. They arrived with dramatic winds, and within minutes the air turned yellow, covering everything in a fine, stubborn layer of dust. But tradition is tradition, a force even nature cannot defeat. And so, every year, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, only to run frantically from window to window watching everything slowly disappear beneath sand.
The other force mightier than nature is family.
Around the same time I begin to rise from the couch, the phone calls start.
“So, where are you going to be for Passover this year?”
This is the seemingly innocent opening shot.
From there, depending on the specific branch of family, the conversation can remain polite and civilized or evolve into a screaming match ending with slammed phones and wounded feelings.
In large families, an elaborate calculation is usually required. If last year we went to his mother and two years ago to my mother, does that mean this year we can buy a last-minute ticket to Greece and disappear on a remote island?
Or if I brought the chicken last year - a complicated recipe that took twenty-four hours to prepare, and his mother commented that it was not tender enough, does that exempt me this year? Or should we simply announce that we are hosting friends and spend the evening with the lights off, pretending not to be home?
However you slice it, Passover is a family-laden holiday and, as such, heavy with raw emotion.
It is an excellent opportunity to create fresh grievances and an even better one to resurrect old ones. After all, Passover is about remembering and learning from the past.
It always begins with the words, “Remember when…”
That is your cue to run.
There is no possible way to win an argument that begins with those two words. In my experience, no one ever has. The family member who summons the ghost from the past has already rehearsed the details. You will be defeated in less than two rounds. The secret of this ancient technique is to catch you off guard. The victor then walks away appearing deeply wounded, only to pick up a conveniently pre-packed suitcase and rush off to the nearest airport.
Yes, I know what you are thinking.
“Not all families are alike. Some actually look forward to an evening filled with good food, warm conversation, and long-forgotten loved ones.”
You may be right. Some families may indeed fit that description.
The food is often excellent.
The conversation, I am less certain about.
It is a well-known fact that the heart of Passover is the retelling of the past. It is based on the hopeful notion that one can learn from mistakes made thousands of years ago. Unfortunately, unlike wine, these stories do not improve with age. They grow older. And longer.
Between repeating the stories, fighting sleep, and dreaming of the meal to come, I watch my relatives sitting around the table in various states of boredom. I often wonder about those long-forgotten family members. There was probably a reason we did not meet for so long. Something tells me it might be connected to last Passover.
I know I should think fast. Prepare a plausible excuse. Consider an early departure.
Hungry as I am, I feel a strange sense of relief.
We’ve done it.
Next year, perhaps Greece.
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