“I never want to inherit this holiday,” I sighed to my mother over the phone, as we discussed the extensive Passover preparations under way in her house.
She shrugged off my comment with a hearty laugh. She didn’t seem to mind the work—the whole house turned upside down, as plates, silverware, pots, and pans exchanged places for eight days, and shelves and counters were lined with plastic to protect from errant breadcrumbs somehow not scrubbed away. A festival of freedom? Jewish women everywhere know better. But mine was never your Jewish mother-cum-martyr type. She was happy to see Judaism alive and well, and you could almost measure that joy in the chocolate covered matzos, coconut-crusted marshmallows, sugary fruit rings, and nubby horseradish roots piled in every corner of her kosher-for-Passover kitchen.
From Tablet Magazine
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