The Two-Minute Passover Haggadah

I know, I know, you do an authentic seder that lasts hours and hours. You and your family reenact the Exodus from Egypt and post it live on Facebook. My people aren't that patient, or just between us, interested. My people are of the "cut to the chase, let's eat" variety. Many years of hosting, not to mention attending, Passover seders have taught the SJG that my tiny yet meaningful tribe can't even get through a five minute seder without turning it into a Borscht Belt routine. A few years ago, I came up with the speediest haggadah on the planet, with a little help from the Internet. It is my gift to you. You're welcome. 

LEADER:

Welcome to our Seder! It’s time to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt.

EVERYBODY:

Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech haolam, borei pri hagafen.

LEADER:

Drink!

Let’s say another prayer:

EVERYBODY:

Baruch Ata Adonay Elohenu Melech Ha-olam, She-hechiyanu, V’kimanu, V’heegianu, La’zman hazeh.

LEADER:

[Holds matzoh high ]

This is the poor man’s bread that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. They didn’t have time to let it rise. They had to get the hell out. This year we are here, next year let’s celebrate in Jerusalem. (Or Sherman Oaks.) This year we are slaves, next year may we be free! Woo hoo!

Now, let’s say the four questions:

EVERYBODY:

1. What's up with the matzoh?

2. What's the deal with horseradish?

3. What's with the dipping of the herbs?

4. What's this whole reclining at the table business?

LEADER:

Here’s the short answer. We were slaves in Egypt. Moses said to Pharaoh, “Let my people go!” Pharaoh said, “No!” Then God punished him with 10 plagues… too disgusting to mention. Frogs, blood, etc. We didn’t have enough time to wait for the bread to rise, so we made a big batch of matzoh and fled. Not that it was easy. First Moses parted the Red Sea and then we got a little lost in the desert. But only for 40 years. The matzoh, the horseradish, the bitter herbs… all represent how we struggled as slaves to break free. Tonight we recline to celebrate our freedom! Woo hoo!

[Raise glass]

Everybody Drink! Everybody sing!

Everybody sing DAYEINU:

Day-day-einu, Day-day-einu, etc.  

LEADER

So. What’s with this cup of wine that nobody drinks? That’s for Elijah, the prophet who may or may not show up to announce the arrival of the Messiah!

EVERYBODY:

Welcome back, Elijah! Come recline with us!

LEADER

Every year, we come together on Passover. Why? I’ll tell you why. So we can feel like WE left Egypt, too. Message received! So let’s thank God (or, if you prefer, the Universe) for the miracles of the Exodus. Looks like we made it after all!

EVERYBODY:

Hallelujah!

LEADER:

In conclusion, they tried to kill us, they failed. Let’s eat!

The Lady of Paris

Notre-Dame, Summer 2015 

Scotty took this heavenly photo of Notre-Dame during his post-graduation travels. 

Notre-Dame, Winter 2018 

In December, we wandered through the beloved cathedral, the five of us, and stared up in awe at the stained glass windows, seeing them for the first time through the eyes of our French daughter-in-law. 

Notre-Dame, Spring 2019

Yesterday, Notre-Dame caught fire, its iconic spire toppled, and the world went into shock. Was it arson? Was it from the renovation underway? How did this happen? Will Notre-Dame burn to the ground? By a miracle, the 850-year-old structure was only partially destroyed. The pledges of money and vows of reconstruction ease some of the pain, but it will be a long time before Paris, and the rest of us, recover from what feels like not only losing a member of the family, but also a historic symbol of hope, faith and survival. 

Origami Mommy/Career Consultant

This morning, while I began Stage 3 of Passover Prep, or what I like to call the "Origami Mommy Phase," during which I attempted to get creative with paper napkins, and the results were rudimentary at best... 

On the other side of the wall, the overnight guest, aka the youngest son, recently downsized from his music job at Fox, a cruel turn of events he's handling like an mensch, combed the web for similar employment opportunities in Los Angeles. To keep him motivated, I sang a bluesy tune: "She's an Origami Mommy/A napkin-foldin' Swami." To keep me from singing, he called out the exciting career options that popped up on Glassdoor:

"I think I've found the job I've been waiting for, Ma."

"Tell me."

"Worship Assistant at a Lutheran church."

"I forbid you from converting."

"Closing Crew at Free Birds Burritos."

"Next."

"Medical Billing Specialist at a Mental Health Center."

"You could probably get me a nice discount when I check in for a little rest."

"I could be a pizza/salad chef at Oliva."

"Well, we know the owner. That's a slam-dunk."

"Studio manager at Duff's Cake Mix."

"If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake."

"Van driver."

"Honey, I think you need to narrow your search."

"You're right, Ma. I don't think there's much room for growth."

"I'd have to agree."

"Although, the burrito position sounds promising." 

The Second Stage of Passover

When the SJG does Passover, I do it in stages. So far, I've completed two of the many stages.
1. Obsession Stage:
Purely mental. Involves visualizing how 15 people will recline around one table, and the realization that they can't all fit, what was I thinking?
2. Heavy Lifting Stage:
Purely physical. Involves schlepping folding chairs and card table from garage, dumping everything in dining room, throwing cloths over tables, and then collapsing on sofa.

My Saturday Night Escort

"Hurry, darling. We mustn't be late for Brushes." 

Every now and then, I force longtime hubby to see a show. It doesn't happen too often. I can count the number of musicals I've schlepped him to over the years: "Jersey Boys." "The Producers." "Book of Mormon." He loved all three, and that was enough to last him a lifetime. Lately, he's setting a personal record, escorting me to the theatre every Saturday night. "Honey, you don't have to go," I say. "I want to go," he says. "Aren't you sick of it?" "No way, it's funny." Music to my ears. He's been cheering me on for six years, through all the ups and downs of getting Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs on its feet. He'll be by my side again tonight, keeping me sane. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm one lucky lil Jew.

Celebrity Tell-All

Tell us, SJG, what do you like to do in your spare time? 
I like to nap.

What's your most annoying habit?
Sometimes I sing "Cellino and Barnes, Injury Attorneys" like Ethel Merman, all day long.

If you weren't famous, what would you be up to right now?
Finding a cure for stupidity.

Do you like pickles?
What's not to like?
  
Do you speak any other languages?
I'm fluent in Kvetch. 

Goodbye, Old Friend

Goodbye, mine Swingline. Goodbye, mine Stapler. Sayanora. Shalom. Au revoir. All the things you've held together. The essays. The stories. The travel itineraries. The print-at-home tickets. The 952 rejected tv movie ideas. The receipts, the bills, the miscellaneous evidence of daily life. We've shared so much, mine stapler. It seems like only yesterday I freed you from the box, and put you to work. I expected a lot and you delivered. Through all the demands, the random tasks, the clutter, you were a pro. Never complaining, never rolling your staples at me. Thank you for that. The years together, they've been special, so many, I've lost count. But you've been there for me. You've never let me down. Until yesterday. Yesterday, you said, "Enough." Yesterday, you said, "I'm done." Just like that, you broke. I tried to save you, tried to dislodge the staples embedded inside you. I turned you upside down. I launched an investigation. I called for back up. Even longtime hubby couldn't fix you. You were beyond repair. Was it old age? Wear and tear? Planned obsolescence? Was it something I said? I'll never know. But what I do know is this. You were a trouper, a loyal office mate. You lasted longer than the others that came before you. Wherever you're headed next, wherever all the broken desk accessories go when they're past their prime, I wish you well on your journey. Goodbye, mine Swingline. Goodbye, mine Stapler. Goodbye.