Over Here, Elijah

Monday night is the first night of Passover, the night when Jews congregate, hide the afikomen in ridiculous places, fumfer through the four questions in Bar Mitzvah Hebrew, all while reclining, drinking and over-noshing on gefilte fish and macaroons.  I mention Monday for a reason, not just to show that the SJG is fully up on the important holidays.  I mention Monday because my mishpoche (I won't name names, but it was my mother-in-law's idea) decided to futz with the Jewish calendar, tweak it slightly for convenience (shanda!) and move Passover to Sunday night.  I'm sure this isn't kosher.  I'm sure we'll suffer.  I'm sure we'll be stoned at some later date.  I'm sure Moses wouldn't approve.  I'm sure Elijah won't get the text in time and will bypass the house altogether.  He won't be the only one.  Rather than break matzoh with his loved ones, the college boy prefers to wander the desert of Coachella in a total haze.  His Passover punishment came early, though.  He got a nice biblical slap on the wrist when he missed his flight to Burbank, had to wait hours in San Jose and fly into LAX -- a locale change he casually mentioned in the nick o' time.  It was hard to work up the correct amount of sympathy for this particular eff up, considering he was sitting right there in the terminal while they boarded his flight.  His excuse: "I was reading this really interesting article on The Daily Beast."  At least he's up on his current events.  In the meantime, if the SJG looks a little bloated on Monday morning, it's my mother-in-law's fault.  Happy Early Passover. If you see Elijah, pass it along.