May 18, 2026 · 7:30 am

A mother’s worry

by Karen Scholl (Mount Vernon, OH)

My 24-year-old son Noah had been in Israel for less than three hours when I got this text:

Noah: Weird question, but do you want to know when or if I hear sirens or have to shelter?

He was attending a week-long conference with other Jewish educators to meet people directly impacted by the October 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel. More than a year into the conflict, Noah was there to listen to people’s stories, see what their lives are like today, and hear what they hope for the future.

When he first sent me a link to the program, I knew he had to go. It didn’t just align with his recently earned religious studies-political science degree, but his passion for connecting with people and trying to better understand their experiences and perspectives.

Was I worried about him visiting a country in the middle of a conflict? That was the question most people asked me. Not directly, of course. “Oh, Israel. Wow. Ok. That’s…uh, how do you feel about that?” 

Honestly, my biggest worries were about him remembering his passport and making all his flights.

I’d woken up that morning to a text that he landed in Tel Aviv, and then another one that said he “made it” through customs, which I hadn’t even thought to worry about. 

Noah: I definitely didn’t explain myself the best, but the customs official let me through. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say and she was just like, “Have better answers next time.”

It’s not that I sit and worry, but just knowing he’s en route somewhere— especially if it’s across an ocean—ignites one more burner on the endless stovetop of my brain. So just the sight of a text that says On the ground, or even an airplane-landing emoji settles me. 

When Noah’s question came through I was in the middle of a client project—tweaking a headline about luxury travel to try and attract the most high-net-worth eyeballs. But now I needed to decide about sirens? My Noah burner reignited. Did I want to know—in the moment—if he was in danger? 

Me: So, like right now? Or is this hypothetical? 

Normally I know better than to use punctuation in texts to my kids. They taught me early on that, from me, periods and question marks seem “aggressive.” So I save them for essential communications—How high is your fever? This time I was tempted to respond purely in punctuation—one giant question mark.

Damn those three dots. Noah typed and re-typed, and re-typed again—from the other side of the globe. It felt like I’d just pulled the lever on a slot machine and was waiting for the reels to stop spinning, praying they’d land on Safe. Safe. Safe.

Noah: Not now. Though when I was in the taxi from the airport we sheltered under an overpass for a few minutes—but it was the first siren in Tel Aviv in weeks.


I really wanted to see his face or hear his voice in that moment, to know for-sure-for-sure that he was ok. 

Me: What does the siren mean exactly? 

Where I live in Ohio, tornado sirens are tested once a week, literally like clockwork. Hearing one just means it’s 12 p.m. on Wednesday, time to get up from my desk and make lunch.

Noah: I think it means there are rockets in the air, but I’m not 100% sure.

I had to look away from my phone. But there was my laptop screen, covered with the headlines about exclusive vacations.  

I couldn’t think, so I shut the lid the way I turn off the radio when I’m driving through a white-out. 

Behind my laptop sat a mug with the cold dregs of hibiscus tea and a pile of bills. I could hear the dogs snoring on the couch behind me, my husband on the phone in the next room. 

Most days, and for most of each day, this was my whole little world. My grown kids pop in and out of it, but they rarely transport me from it. Not like this.

Noah was barely one day into his trip and my stomach was braided like challah. Later, a friend who travels to Israel often mentioned that there’s an app that lets you know when and where sirens are going off. “I mean, I don’t have it,” she said, “but you can get it—if you want to know.”

I thought of my college roommate who moved to Israel and raised three kids in Tel Aviv. We lost touch years ago, but whenever I saw headlines about unrest there, I wondered how it affected her life. Was she still cooking dinner, asking her kids about school, reminding them to pick their clothes up off the floor like I was? Or was she holding onto them in a bomb shelter?

Me: Yes, please keep me posted about your safety ❤️

The rest of Noah’s week seemed to go well. Mid-way through, he casually mentioned a second incident with sirens, but glossed over it with stories about the courageous people he met and how it felt to walk through one of the kibbutzim that was attacked, seeing the scars and devastation, but also the hope.

After heavier days he’d send pics from feasts in quaint cafes or videos from the poets and musicians they met. He FaceTimed me once to show me the stray cats running around the roof of his hostel in Jerusalem and the sun rising over the Old City.

Right before his flight out of Tel Aviv, sirens went off for the third time. It was Friday night here when I started seeing Noah’s texts come through—first that he was sheltering in the airport bathroom, then that he got the all-clear.

Noah: I’m a little shaken just because I was asleep at the gate when the sirens first went off, but I’m fine. Met a nice Danish woman in the shelter. 

Noah (cont’d): Experiencing the sirens gave me a fuller grasp of all the emotions and feelings that are out there. I wanted to be in the center of the action and it comes with stuff like this.

Once he got back to his gate, he shared more. 

Noah: The most intense part was everyone running, like watching an entire terminal of people scatter, looking for shelters. I’ve seen it 3 times now, but it’s the look in people’s eyes when they realize oh, this is not a drill, we gotta start running.

Later that night I was better able to take stock of things. Noah was fine. His flight out of Tel Aviv had taken off as scheduled and he was likely stretched out across three seats in the back of the darkened plane, two-melatonin deep into a transcontinental nap. Relieved as I was that the drama of the week was over, I was thankful to be present for it, for him—even just via Wi-Fi. Now that he’s grown up and out on his own, I consider witnessing the events that continue to shape his life a real gift.

A few days later, Noah was sitting next to me on the couch, giving me the full download from his trip. He confirmed that not only did those sirens mean rockets were in the air, but once you hear them, you have 90 seconds to find shelter. Saving that last detail until he was within arm’s reach of me was a kindness.

“But I never really felt I was in danger,” he said. “And it’s going to sound weird, but hearing sirens right after I got there almost helped me get into the right headspace.”

“Everywhere we went, all week,” he added, “the first thing they did was show us where to go if the sirens go off. But that first day, in the taxi, I had no idea. The driver made eye contact with me in the rearview then floored it to an overpass. We sprinted to the bridge then stayed there with other motorists until we heard the all-clear.” 

The visual tore through me. I knew instantly that it would run on a loop in my head like a maddening jingle—the boy who I watched run up and down soccer fields for 14 years, running from a car to find safety in case a rocket broke through the Iron Dome. But I tried to hide it, because just like him, I want to be in the center of the action—his action—even when it’s scary—and it comes with stuff like this.

He must have sensed it, because Noah knew exactly where to end his story. “The weirdest part,” he said, “was getting back into the cab and seeing that the meter was still running.”

Karen Scholl has spent the last 25 years working as a copywriter and creative director. In between crafting web copy about laundry detergent, writing video scripts for financial institutions, and creating leadership articles for executives, she started writing about the relatable—and often humorous—moments of everyday life. Karen is the author of Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks. Visit her website for more info: https://www.karenschollwriter.com

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May 11, 2026 · 7:30 am

The Seven Ages of Growing Up Jewish

by Kayla Anderson (Irvine, CA)

(a Jewish twist on Shakespeare’s “Seven Ages of Man” monologue)

1. You’re snuggled tight in mommy’s arms as she lights the menorah candles. You tear off wrapping paper with chubby fingers, bouncing up and down with joy at the sight of your shiny new toy. Before you know it, the moon is smiling down on you and mommy is rocking you back and forth, singing gently. The familiar melody of Hatikvah lulls you to sleep.

2. Today at preschool you made a magen david out of popsicle sticks, leaving you sticky with glue. Now you’re standing on the bimah with your classmates, singing. Your dress itches a little, and you’ve forgotten most of the lyrics, but at the sight of your parents beaming at you from the pews, you can’t help but smile.

3. Hanukkah rolls around again, and you’re finally old enough to light the candles all by yourself. At school the next day, you bring leftover latkes for lunch and tell your friends about the special holiday, but they look at you with confusion. “You don’t celebrate Christmas?” they ask, wide-eyed. “No,” you mumble. Shame burns hot on your cheeks. 

4. Eventually, you realize that being Jewish can feel lonely. While the rest of your girl scout troop decorates ornaments, you just sit silently. Your fourth grade teacher says, “Have a great Christmas break!” and then glances at you and corrects herself: “Sorry—winter break.” And no matter how many times you remind your friend’s parents that you’re Jewish, they always ask, “How was church?” After a while, you get tired of correcting them, so you force a smile and say, “It was good.”

5. You’ve just turned thirteen, and after many months of practice, your big day—your bat mitzvah—is finally here. Nervousness and excitement war for dominance in your brain as you prepare to read from the Torah. You take a deep breath and look out into the crowd of friends and family, all of them here just for you. In this moment, you feel both the weight of responsibility and the liberation of independence. 

6. You’re older now, and you finally understand the duality of the Jewish experience. For every Shabbat service you attend is another antisemitic comment or Holocaust joke that makes its way onto your social media feed. For every precious memory made at Jewish sleepaway camp is another synagogue vandalized, broken into, attacked. So you buy a silver chai necklace and wear it proudly—the world can’t silence your Jewishness.

7. The rest of your Jewish life lies brightly ahead. Among many things you look forward to are your Birthright trip to Israel, your Jewish wedding, and—eventually—raising your children in a house filled with perfectly-crispy latkes and popsicle-stick magen davids. Growing up Jewish is a rollercoaster of highs and lows, but you know in your heart you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Kayla Anderson is a high school senior and proud Reform Jew from California. Creative writing has always been one of her greatest passions, and she finds it immensely fulfilling to weave her Jewish identity into her work. She plans to pursue a career in education, where she can help children discover the joys of language and literature. One day, she hopes to fulfill her longtime dream of publishing a book, and hopes her work inspires, resonates, and sparks joy.

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May 4, 2026 · 7:30 am

How Hebrew Jewelry Became My Family’s Legacy

Esh Hadaya (Jerusalem, Israel)

I grew up in Jerusalem, where my father, Baruch Hadaya, made Hebrew words shine. At his workbench, with the hum of the Jewish Quarter outside his window. At first, it was a simple silver ring engraved with the words Gam Ze Ya’avor — “This too shall pass.” It was meant for a friend going through a hard time, but it struck a chord with the stream of students, soldiers, and travelers who wandered into his shop. Before long, he was engraving biblical verses, lines from S.Y. Agnon, and phrases whispered in prayer, each one hand-lettered in Hebrew and then etched into silver and gold.

For my father, this was never only craftsmanship. It was a way of spreading the holiness of our language — letter by letter, word by word. He believed Hebrew carried a kind of spiritual charge, that the letters themselves could uplift, comfort, and connect a person to something eternal. For many visitors, their Hadaya piece wasn’t just jewelry; it became a personal amulet, a reminder of faith and resilience they could carry with them anywhere in the world.

As a child, I didn’t just watch this happen — I absorbed it. I saw how someone would walk into our shop carrying a burden and leave with something in their pocket or around their neck that made their shoulders sit higher. It taught me that being a Jew isn’t only about a synagogue’s ritual, it can also be about the quiet rituals we make in everyday life — wrapping tefillin in the morning, yes, but also turning a phrase of Torah into something that rests against your heart.

Over the years, my father’s dream was for all of us — my two brothers, my mother, and me — to work together in the family shop. He didn’t live to see that dream fully realized. But in the way of other tzadikim who plant seeds they never see sprout, his vision is now our reality. We engrave the same verses he did, tell the same stories he told, and pass Hebrew into the hands of new generations, one piece of jewelry at a time.

His legacy is more than the thousands of rings, necklaces, and bracelets scattered across the world — it’s the way he taught us to carry Hebrew, to wear it, and to let it shape our Jewish lives. For me, it’s impossible to separate my own Jewish identity from this work, because it’s through this work that I learned the power of our language, our history, and our small, beautiful way to keep both alive.

Esh Hadaya is a singer, songwriter, and world traveler who manages the family’s worldwide business as the spokesperson and IT manager of Hadaya Jewelry, the Jerusalem studio founded by his father, the late master engraver and storyteller Baruch Hadaya. In the studio, Esh carries on Baruch’s beloved storytelling, gathering visitors to share the origins of treasured quotes, designs, and the Jerusalem spirit behind each hand-engraved piece. Through words and craft, he continues Hadaya’s mission to spread Hebrew wisdom and handmade love across the globe. To visit Hadaya Jewelery, check out the studio’s website: https://hadayajewelry.com/

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April 27, 2026 · 7:30 am

A final flower for Shabbat

by Steve Lipman (Forest Hills, NY)

$8.66.

That’s how much a single long-stemmed rose cost me in May at a florist’s shop in the Houston suburb where my mother had lived in a skilled nursing home for a few weeks. She was undergoing rehabilitation to strengthen her for a return to the assisted living facility where she had lived for more than a year.

I bought the flower on a Friday morning in May on the way to visit Mom. I was in Texas for a few weeks while my sister — a Sandwich Generation Baby Boomer who ordinarily took care of Mom’s affairs, while playing an active role in the lives of her adult daughters — was spending a week out of the country with a vacationing daughter.

I was covering for my sister, driving to visit Mom every day, besides Shabbat.

That erev Shabbos I stopped at the florist’s to keep up a long-standing tradition. When earlier visiting my folks in Buffalo (Dad was alive until 2005), and when visiting Mom since she had moved to the Houston area (she settled there the year after Dad died), I always bought her a bouquet for Shabbat. Or for yom tov, if I visited on a chag. Whether she was in her own apartment, or subsequently in assisted living.

She always appreciated the flowers.

Would she this time?

At 104, she was rapidly declining – physically, mentally and emotionally. She recently had been officially diagnosed with the onset of dementia. Though the diagnosis only confirmed the obvious.

Her energy and acuity diminishing, she often spent a day – or most of it – in bed, hardly eating, which further weakened her.

Nevertheless, I brought flowers for Shabbat. That was my mitzvah, my tradition. No one else in the family had done it on a regular basis.

Mom, while not an Orthodox Jew by any means, found the flowers a reminder of the frum home of immigrants from Eastern Europe in which she had grown up.

By the time I spent in Texas recently, it was questionable how much she remembered.

Over the years, each bouquet was different – depending on the weather or time of year, the imminence of any Jewish or secular holiday, my mood or Mom’s mood, my budget or other conditions. Different smells, different colors, different arrangements. One bouquet from a Buffalo-area supermarket one year, for a reason that neither Mom nor I understood, featured an artichoke amidst the blooms; the artichoke did not add to our aesthetic or dietary enjoyment.

Mom would happily display the flowers each time in a vase on the living room table, where she hosted a Shabbat meal for me and some family guests, or somewhere else in the room easily within sight.

At the Texas Friday in May, I had considered not getting Mom any flowers. What’s the point? Would she notice?

In the nursing home, after a recent hospitalization, she was barely conscious, hardly spoke to anyone on the staff or to visitors when she was surprisingly awake, rarely opened her eyes, would mostly mumble a few words. She might not appreciate – or recognize – flowers.

But I decided to get some, to honor Mom and to honor Shabbat.

This might be my last chance, I thought.

I drove to the florist shop on a state highway near my sister’s home.

No full bouquet this time; Mom didn’t have a vase in her room. A single flower, a reminder of Shabbos kodesh, would suffice; a wrapped flower I could leave with Mom.

What sort of flower? I had no preference. Maybe an orchid or a lily. For sure, an actual flower, not an artificial one – as a symbol of life, of hope.

A middle-aged saleswoman behind the counter, sporting a Houston Texans football team T-shirt, invited me to look around. She pointed to groups of flowers on vases scattered around the front of the store and in a refrigerator. The shop was not large, but the variety of flowers was.

“We have more in the back,” she said, directing me to a room where other employees were at work picking and snipping a rainbow’s worth of blooms. I walked into the back room and looked around. A vaseful of tall pink-and-white roses – the pink was clearly introduced by dye via capillaries into the originally white flowers — caught my eye.

That was my choice.

What woman doesn’t like a rose?

“I’ll take one of those.”

One of the workers cut the stem into about a foot’s length, added some greens and baby’s breath, connected them to a small vial of water that kept it all hydrated, covered it with some light green wrapping paper, and handed it to me.

$8.66.

A lot of money for a single flower.

I rarely depend on gematria for writing the divrei Torah that have dominated a significant chunk of my time since my full-time job ended in 2020. But one numerical equivalence seemed appropriate – one gematria of 866 is c’ahavat ha’mishpacha – “as the love of the family.”

My sentiments, exactly.

I laid the flower on the passenger’s seat of Mom’s car, and set off on the 25-minute drive to her nursing home.

In her room, Mom appeared to be asleep.

“Good morning, Mom,” I said loudly. 

She didn’t stir.

I repeated my greeting.

“Huh?”

“Today is Friday, and tonight is Shabbos. I brought you a flower.”

“Good.”

“Open your eyes!”

Mom opened her eyes.

I held the modest Shabbat gift in front of her.

“Oh, beautiful.”

Then she closed her eyes again.

I put the flower across the top of a small bedside dresser, so Mom could see it if she turned her head.

At least she, and any aides who entered her room – none of them Jewish – would know that Judaism’s holy Day of Rest was making an appearance.

After a while, I took Mom, helped by an aide into her wheelchair, outside for a while for some fresh air. Then it was lunch time. An aide in the dining hall would feed Mom her meal.

I wished Mom a “Good Shabbos!” and kissed the top of her head, took a final long look at her, and headed back to my sister’s house.

It was the last flower I bought for Mom for Shabbat.

Since the first week in August, three months after I brought the flower, Mom has rested in Houston’s National Cemetery, in a plot where Jewish mesora dictates that flowers are not appropriate.

$8.66 was a good investment.

I thought: $8.66 is expensive for one flower. But it’s a cheap price for a memory.

____

Steve Lipman was a staff writer for The New York Jewish Week from 1983 until 2020.

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April 20, 2026 · 7:30 am

How My Father Shaped My Jewishness

By Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)

My father never called me by what I call

my American name.

I was never Herbert, Herbie, Herb or even,

as a Scottish fellow teacher used to call me

during my time in West Africa for the Peace Corps,

Bertie. To my dad, I was always a very guttural “Chaim.”

I never questioned his choice.

(A Herb by any other name….)

To my teachers, my friends, my sisters,

I was Herb or Herbie but to my dad, I was consistently

Chaim. It was good and even comforting to be addressed

that way by him. In mature retrospection, I realize that

his use of the Hebrew name gave me my Jewish identity.

It’s as if he used the name to remind me of who I am:

a Jewish male, a descendant of a proud people,

a member of a not-so-massive group who love peace,

education, community, ambition;

a never-ending congregation whose members

represent the sacred holiness of life —

even in the face of constant enmity.

All this emanated from a name that has always

carried with it a truly deep meaning in the simple

yet complex translation: “Life!” In my final maturity,

as I reflect, even against my will,

I occasionally stumble onto wisdom

and realize the gentle options which

he offered up to me: Temple Emanuel visits

for major holidays, after-school Hebrew culture classes,

public school Hebrew language classes

(I won the Golden Ayin and was President

of the Hebrew Culture Club), two agonizing visits to

Jewish cemeteries. Even in the presence of death, I —

Chaim (my soul hears echoes of my father’s voice

together with a whisper of assurance from my mother) —

even in the midst of humbly resting Jewish souls

gone from one kind of community to

a much more peaceful one —

I am my father’s Chaim.

I am my lifetime definition

of a Jewish life!

Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y. with both a B.S. in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.

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April 13, 2026 · 7:30 am

Visiting on Father’s Day

by Lillian Farzan-Kashani (Santa Monica, CA)

Your energy shines

Like the sun rays

Grateful to be near you, 

I clean off your headstone with rosewater

What a gift to be raised

In the language you spoke

Hayedeh and Faramarz on repeat

In your honor

I wish we could have gotten 

Further into the

Rumi + Hafez of it all

Perhaps not a poet

But a philosopher

I wonder what you would say now

My fiancé’s flight canceled

Bombs going off in your homeland

And too close to where your parents rest

Would you tense like the rest of our family 

At the sight of a kefiyyeh?

Or see it just as

The stars I was given as a child, to wear around my neck

A symbol of

The people, at the end of the day

With whom you found grace, even kinship 

Moved by their beauty and hospitality

Oh how I long for more time spent with you, Baba, your leveled head and all

Lillian Farzan-Kashani is an Iranian American and Jewish therapist, poet, and speaker based in Los Angels, CA. Much her her work is rooted in being a child of immigrants and is reflective of her intersectionality. Read more about her professional and creative pursuits at https:www.lillianfarzan.com/

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April 12, 2026 · 7:30 am

Where the train tracks end

by Janice Alper (San Diego, CA)

I walk in silence along grass covered train tracks
with teenagers, Holocaust survivors, chaperones.
We are a sea of blue. Our jackets boast
MARCH OF THE LIVING. Butterflies flutter
onto wildflowers, birds chirp in sparse trees.
We shade our eyes from bright sunlight, stare
at the expanse of 17,000 stone markers with
names of towns and villages no longer in existence.
Two teens help me on my fruitless quest to find
my great-great grandparents’ birthplace. We rest,
sit on the ground, our backs against the smooth
stones, close our eyes. For a moment we are
joined with those who are gone.

At dusk, young lovers stroll hand in hand,
in the shadow of a new moon, hug,
make love, ignore the ghosts of Treblinka.

Janice Alper writes poems, personal essays, and memoirs. Her work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, Bristlecone, and California Bards, and other places. She is the author of Sitting on the Stoop: A Girl Grows in Brooklyn, 1944-1957. Janice is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry, from San Diego State University. Follow her at www.janicesjottings1.com

Editor’s Note: “Where the train tracks end” originally appeared on OftheBook (https://ofthebookpress.com) and is reprinted here with permission of the author.

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April 6, 2026 · 7:30 am

Shabbat

by Penny Perry (Fallbrook, CA)

My six-year-old granddaughter

comes home from school

and declares, “Jesus saved me.”

My four-year-old granddaughter

echoes, “Jesus.”

“I need to tell them who we are,”

my daughter says.

My daughter found Judaism on her own.

I’m a Jew with Buddhist tendencies.

I pray to God and escort live spiders

from the shower to the grass.

My daughter gathers flour, honey,

eggs, oil, sugar, and yeast,

pours them in a mixer. The mixer hums.

She hums, lets the dough rise,

rolls the dough out.

She’s beautiful in her pink dress

and shawl, her hair tied back,

one loose curl.

She shapes the dough into four braids

and weaves them into a loaf.

She brushes the loaf with an egg wash,

bakes the bread to a golden brown.

She tells her daughters that all over

the world at sundown on Shabbat Jewish women

light candles. The candles she picks

are small with tiny flames. She places

each candle in a glass and puts them

on the cupboard. Each girl will have a candle of her own.

My daughter shows her daughters her book

of prayers, her Hebrew name embossed

on the cover. She says a prayer

in a language her girls have never

heard before. She asks them to close

their eyes and picture God,

says God loves them and will keep them safe.

I don’t tell my daughter that a friend

carries her flour and honey,

eggs and oil to the synagogue, 

where police in uniforms holster

their Glocks, guard the temple,

so my friend can bake and worship

in peace.

My granddaughters stand in their dresses,

their eyes closed.

I picture them as grown up mothers praying

in their kitchens at sundown.

I wipe my eyes, breathe in the scent of baking bread.

Penny Perry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize six times, by six different publishers. Garden Oak Press has published two of her poetry books, Santa Monica Disposal and Salvage and Woman with Newspaper Shoes. Her poetry has appeared in many publications, including Earth’s Daughters, Lilith, Poetry International, San Diego Poetry Annual, Paterson Literary Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, and Limestone Circle. Her novel Selling Pencils and Charlie was a finalist in the San Diego Book Awards. She was the prose editor at Knot Literary Magazine for ten years. In the early 1970’s, she was one of the first female screenwriting fellows at the American Film Institute; a screenplay she wrote there became a film on PBS. 

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March 30, 2026 · 7:30 am

Our Brooklyn Seder Table

by Sherri Blum (Wading River, NY)

My parents were both born in Brooklyn. They each came from strong Jewish families, and because my parents took lots of home movies I was able to get a glimpse into their past. On these 8mm tapes I watched scenes from my parents’ wedding, which showcased their one-bedroom apartment, and, in addition, scenes of family Passover Seders. 

All the relatives were dressed up for the occasion. Men in their suits, ties and hats; women in their finest dresses adorned with broaches and pearls. The movies were silent so I had to interpret their facial expressions as I watched people laughing and kids running around. There was plenty of smiling and waving at the camera. I could almost read their lips as they read the Haggadah and sang “Dayenu,” which brought a warm and loving feeling that made me feel connected to those who have passed on.

The seders that I personally remember took place ten years after the time when I watched the older videos. My relatives on my father’s side would gather at my grandparents’ apartment in Brooklyn. This included my father’s two brothers, their wives and kids (my cousins!). The building was built during World War Two. When you walked in the front door of the apartment building, you needed to be “buzzed” in. 

Dressed in my fanciest dress and patent leather Mary Janes, I arrived with my parents and my two older brothers at my grandparents’ Brooklyn apartment and felt transported back to the 1930’s as I entered what felt like a large ballroom. I was immediately struck by the sight of the black-and-white Art Deco tiled floor, the cement walls, and the high ceilings. 

The best part of walking into the lobby was the old elevator. There was an older African-American gentleman, small in stature with a kind face and a gentle voice named Bill, who would open the elevator door and allow us to pile in. The elevator door had a small, diamond-shaped window. If I stood on my tippy toes, I could see the elevator climbing past each floor. It was the start of an exciting evening for me. The thought of seeing all my cousins, the laughter, the matzoh balls, my uncles singing off key—it was all about to begin!

Dinner was always delicious and thankfully predictable. You’d find my grandmother dressed in a housecoat with an older Russian woman who she’d pay for the night to help clean. The woman never spoke to us. She stayed by the sink and continuously washed dishes, silverware, and pots and pans. We tried talking to her, but I don’t think she spoke much English. She would nod and smile. 

The apartment was small, but a perfect size for my grandparents. The kitchen came complete with a white enamel Hoosier cabinet and a very small round table with four small wooden chairs. The living room was right off the kitchen. My grandmother had her couches covered in plastic. There was a black piano that took up a good part of the room. Oddly enough, neither one of them played.

For Passover, the living room was set up with multiple folding tables lined up next to one another. The tables were adorned with my grandmother’s vintage white tablecloths, which were mildly stained with grape juice and wine from past Seders. Of course, the kid’s table came complete with wine glasses filled with Welch’s grape juice. We weren’t old enough for the Manischewitz just yet. But, boy, we felt so grown up with our “real” glasses. The table was set with matching place settings using my grandmother’s white and gold china. Unfortunately, there were not enough matching wine glasses, but that was ok. We made do.

Upon entering the apartment, you’d find a delicious platter of chopped liver and crackers to help tide you over until the start of the Seder. Stacked next to the platter was a pile of Haggadot for everyone to take for the readings. In addition, my grandmother’s matzah cover was proudly displayed, and, after the day was over, would be carefully and reverently stored until next year.

The kitchen was very small and full of the smells of the Passover dinner, and, like a clown car at the circus, people would pile in one-by-one to take their turn sampling Grandmother’s famous matzo balls, which sat in a large stock pot filled with broth and an endless supply of matzo balls, while she stood off in a small corner of the kitchen, lovingly and proudly watching her family enjoy all the hard work she’d put in. She had cooked for weeks before the holiday and froze whatever she could to save time.

The Mah Nishtanah served as a way to engage all of us, both adults and kids. Although it was my father and my uncles who would do the singing, the tradition of asking the questions was given to the kids who were old enough to read. To this day, I remember the pride I felt when my brother would answer the question “Why is this night different than all other nights?” And although I was very young at the time, I can still feel the weight of the answer.  I knew there was something very special in being a young Jewish girl and being a part of a group of people who endured hardships and triumphs. It was a humbling experience.

During dinner, I felt so grown up “sipping my wine,” but the traditions during the Seder were a lot of fun, too, because they only happened once a year. The small china plates, which had two pieces of gefilte fish, would be passed around and, of course, there were the two traditional bottles of Gold’s horseradish. (I would always choose the red one.) From a kid’s perspective, the first part of the Seder may have taken a while but doing it each year instilled the lesson of patience. 

Towards the end of the seder meal, my grandfather would play a game with us kids called “find the matzoh.” If you won, you’d get a $5.00 bill. I knew where it was every year because he would hide it in the same place. The piano bench! I’m not sure if that was him forgetting or if I was his favorite and he wanted me to win. 

After eating my share of chocolate matzoh and macaroons, it was time for the kids to have fun! As younger children, after dinner, we would congregate outside of the apartment in the hallway and run up and down the stairs. 

Thanks to the holiday, I got to see my cousins every year without fail. Ordinarily, I would see my cousins at a family party, but it was only a few times a year at most, so seeing them was very exciting. 

It’s so funny looking back, how an old hallway and a bunch of kids provided memories that I would forever remember with so much fondness.

Sherri Blum lives in Wading River, NY and enjoys writing, antiquing, baking and animal rescue volunteering.

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March 27, 2026 · 7:30 am

My turn to host the seder

by Catherine Durkin Robinson (Chicago, IL)

I had one chance to get this right. 

I was in my 30s, a relatively new mom, and had been lobbying – for years – to host my own Passover seder. We usually went to my mother-in-law’s house for the holiday. And she wasn’t interested in giving that up. Looking back, I don’t blame her. Historically, Passover had always been her day to shine. My mother-in-law’s brisket was legendary. Her matzo ball soup cured whatever ailed us. Her chopped liver and gefilte fish were…edible. 

For some reason, I thought it might be my turn. I don’t remember why she finally agreed. Nothing in our history together indicated that this was a good idea. 

I was a convert who liked to tell her, a woman who was Jewish before I was born, why she should have a Kosher home. We didn’t think about food in the same way. Early on, after we were first married, my husband and I lived several states away. I came home to visit, and my mother-in-law gave me about twenty blintzes. She made ricotta cheese blintzes for my Irish Catholic family, explained which ones they were in a pile of similarly-looking crepes, and which ones were potato blintzes, my husband’s favorites, to bring back to him. 

I didn’t pay attention and goofed it all up. After I got back home, I realized I had left the potato blintzes with my family and took back the cheese ones. 

My non-Jewish friends didn’t understand, but blintzes are a big deal, and my mother-in-law was angry about it. The poor woman didn’t ask for much, and I can appreciate that now as my own children routinely mistake my latkes for knishes.

But at that point, I wasn’t domestically inclined and couldn’t cook. Passover further complicated matters because I couldn’t use any of my tried and true ingredients – like pasta or bread. I was also a vegetarian and raising my twin sons as vegetarians. 

I had no business in this game.

But my husband and mother-in-law had put their faith in me. So I rolled up my sleeves and promised that Passover 2006 would be one for the record books. 

Mistake #1: I found recipes online under “Vegan Jews Unite.” In my defense, they looked good. We were living in a more rural area of Florida at the time, so I had to travel about twenty miles to find grocers who knew what “kosher for Passover” was, but I did it. I found every ingredient, including Matzo Meal, which my mother-in-law swore was a myth.

Mistake #2: I rented a big table and lots of chairs from the same local church that “borrowed” my synagogue’s parking lot on Christmas. It had little crucifixes on every seat cushion. I shrugged and said to my husband, “Interfaith cooperation at its finest.” 

Mistake #3: I didn’t send out a specific time on the invitation, so my husband’s family showed up three hours early. There went my idea of a peaceful meal preparation. 

Mistake #4: I told everyone they didn’t need to bring anything but a smile. So no one brought any extra Xanax. Rookie error.

Mistake #5: Several of my Irish relatives were still boycotting me because the year before, when a relative came down with shingles, and they needed my house for Christmas Eve dinner, I made all of them use paper bowls for the oyster soup because “shellfish is unclean.” The few family members who would attend Passover arrived to find that I’d thrown out all the beer and whiskey and replaced them with something called “cherry-flavored Kosher Wine.” They stopped speaking to me for years after that.

Mistake #6: Our friend Jon arrived hungry. He had been looking forward to a traditional Passover meal for weeks, fantasizing about brisket and homemade matzo ball soup. Then he got to our place and walked into the kitchen. No brisket. 

“But look,” I said, excitedly. “A gigantic salad!” 

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing as he perused the buffet while my mother-in-law sat at the bar, shaking her head, sipping cherry wine. 

“What is vegetarian Passover lasagna?” he asked. “All I see are pieces of spinach and matzo dipped in oat milk.”

“Don’t forget the almond cheese and tofu loaf,” my mother-in-law muttered.

Jon didn’t believe I was Jewish. He demanded to see my conversion paperwork and, to this day, requires an apology every Yom Kippur. 

Mistake #7: I forgot to tell my stepdad that, although the seder began at 5 pm, we didn’t really start eating until quarter to eight. That blood sugar drop almost killed him. He was like a kinder, gentler Archie Bunker, so imagine his face, sitting down with a fork and knife, seeing the rest of us sitting down with Haggadahs. 

Mistake #8: I heard my husband’s cousin mutter, “Once a shiksa always a shiksa,” after I placed an avocado pit on the Seder plate instead of a shank bone. 

Mistake #9: After announcing my matzo ball soup would be a vegetarian, salt-free event, I was unceremoniously kicked out of several wills. 

Mistake #10: I forgot where I hid the afikomen. My children still have trust issues. 

Mistake #11: I served Passover dessert “sweetened” with carob. But by that time, most everyone had gone home, vowing to lose our phone number. 

Eventually, everyone forgave me. It’s true that time heals. So does living in a city with plenty of people who’ve heard of good, kosher for Passover wine, soup, dessert, and brisket. And by people, I mean caterers. 

Catherine Durkin Robinson is an end-of-life doula and educator, living in Chicago. You can find her on Substack. 

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