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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