Once upon a time, when I was a brand new student in Israel, I had a wee landlady with a really-truly heart of gold. Considering the natural order of business relationships, she should be just a distant memory by now…
Not, for instance, a main character in my article about hospitality, because she took me into her home for six weeks. Not the one whose Passover traditions are imprinted into my holiday memory as “the way it’s done,” whose home I miss whenever the Seder meal rolls around again. And certainly not popping up in my email inbox.
But she is, and she did:
It is almost Pesach. Where are you??? Are you joining us this year?
So tonight I shut down this week’s furious writing project, got dressed up, crossed town, and sat down at the table with one grandma, two grown granddaughters, three wee cousins and their parents, plus my fellow adoptees, two Canadians and two Finns.
Together we produced one Exodus-story skit, watched the tiniest one practice her walking, noshed on bitter herbs (parsley, lettuce, and horseradish), broke and dipped unleavened bread, sipped on wine or grape juice, told tales, pondered our own bondage and freedom, listened to interpretations from the teen and the second-grader, prayed and sang and recited in overlapping Hebrew and English.
Then came a lull: dinnertime itself, when we stuffed ourselves on turkey and gefilte fish, matzo ball soup and brownies and sorbet, hid and found the afikomen. We sang timeless Psalms. We sang rollicking “The House that Jack Built” kind of songs, which build the story as you go along.
It was fluid and organic:
“How about we skip this part, Mom?”
“I know the tune to this one. Do you?”
In the background, the mama rocked her children. When the leader stopped to hush his baby, the grown-up girls kept the songs going
At last (five hours in, but who was counting?) we reached the end of the order of service.
As we cleared the table, two small boys slept on the couch: one propped in the corner and sitting straight up. The Finns had to leave: no vacation-time for them tomorrow morning. The Canadians said goodbye. The cats reappeared from their exile outside, and found fish broth in their bowl, their part of the festivities. I shook the tablecloth free of lettuce bits and matza crumbs, shared hugs, and headed home in the cool night air.
That, my friends, is what it’s like to attend a Seder in Israel. This family’s Seder, anyway.
If you’re curious about the Seder meal and its links to the Last Supper, then have a look here.
Elisabeth Adams 