By Aislyn Greene
Spring 2009 Kaplan Award Winner
Noam and I arrived in Chicago on the night of the Seder, a ritualistic meal thatushers in the first day of Passover, or Pesach. On the drive from the airport to Highland Park, an upscale Jewish suburb an hour northwest of the city, Noam’s stepfather, Steve, filled us in on the events of the past few days.
“Well, your sister had her first big fight with Ian last night,” Steve said. “Ronnie sobbed all night and moped all day – their argument had something to do with Israeli-Palestinian relations.”
Noam’s family is Israeli. Apparently this can be a very sensitive topic. “He says he didn’t mean what he said to be derogatory. Well, we’ll see.” Otherwise, he said, everything was great, the house was gleaming and Tami, Noam’s mom was excited to see us.
“Do you know that this is the first time she’ll have all her children and their significant others together under one roof?” Steve beamed at us in the rearview mirror; Noam rolled his eyes.
Tami and Steve live in a modest home in the center of Highland Park. Flanked on both sides by what the family has dubbed ‘McMansions’, their home is unique. Wood paneled, rather than brick like its neighbors, the house looks as though it is split into two geometric pieces. Two triangles comprise the roof (imagine two ‘L’s resting side by side), creating elegant lofted ceilings dotted with skylights. The left side of the house juts forward, towards the street, while the right half is set deeply into the lot, stretching into the backyard. Long rectangular windows line the walls and maple hardwood floors stretch the length of the house; the overall effect is an elegant and understated home among its more ostentatious peers.
The Kaufman-Ben-Ami home smelled of lemons and bleach when we entered. During the week preceding Passover, the home is to be rid of chametz, or leavened bread, and any residue by way of a deep, bleach-heavy cleansing of the house; cracks are scrubbed; Passover dishes brought out; and any chametz is disposed of or sent away for the eight days (there is even a website for Jews to ‘sell’ chametz-tainted possessions to non-Jews for the duration of Passover).
The house was empty of siblings when we arrived. Feeling nervous – this was both my first time meeting Noam’s entire family and my first Passover – I wanted some busy work. So, Tami set me up with a cutting board and a pile of herbs and vegetables.
I am dicing shallots when Anya, Noam’s almost-sister-in-law, enters. Tall, blond and German, she has a husky voice and a no-nonsense manner.
“Do you know any Hebrew?” she asks. I tell her I don’t and she seems surprised that Noam has not taught me any phrases. “Ken,” she instructed, “ken means yes.” As the rest of the family enters, she throws a few more words my way. “Oh, yes, the American’s, they say ‘cool’, no? Cool, in Hebrew is yoffi. And during Passover, we read from the Haggadah. You will sit by Steve tonight, you will learn very much.” She then winks at me.
Suddenly, the house bursts alive. Joni, Noam’s brother, enters, followed by Ronnie and Ian. The cooking stops momentarily, introductions are made and the conversation quickly turns towards food.
“When are we eating, Ima?” Ronnie whines to her mom. “Savlanut, patience Ronnie-le,” Tami chides, “Go finish your cake, you need to decorate it.” Ronnie heaves a sigh and stomps to the refrigerator. She pulls out a vat of chocolate icing and a couple of boxes of matzah. Given that nothing leavened can be served for dessert, as I learn, matzah wafers are spread with chocolate icing and sandwiched together until the structure resembles a cake. Ian sidles up to Ronnie. “Want some help?” he asked tentatively. Ronnie just glares at him and slaps a glob of icing on the matzah. Noam and I exchange a glance (ah, young love) and grin.
The Seder traditionally begins after sundown. By 7:30, the Passover plates are set, the guests have arrived and Ronnie and Ian are once again on speaking terms. Noam pulls me into the dining room and slips me a hunk of matzah. “You’ll need this,” he whispers and points towards a book on the table. “We have to read that before we can eat.” Taking a bit of the crisp, unsalted matzah, I pick up the book. ‘Haggadah’ is written in both English and Hebrew along the back cover.
The Haggadah, I also learn, is the detailed account of the Jews exodus from Egypt. Used during the fifteen-step ritual that composes the Seder, the reading of the Haggadah reminds Jews of their story, their history. Much of the ceremony is geared towards children, specifically to inspire curiosity about their history and to keep them alert and attentive throughout the evening. For example, a piece of matzah, called the Afikomen, is hidden midway through the meal and the lucky child to find it gets a prize.
During the Seder, the Haggadah is passed around the table and each person reads a paragraph. As the story of the exodus is retold, we (I speak in the plural now having left Chicago an ‘honorary Jew’) eat symbolic foods to bring the story to life – and to keep our stomachs from growling during the long ritual.
Steve begins the Seder with the Kiddush, a blessing recited over a glass of red wine while we lean to the left. Apparently, back in the day, only free people had the luxury of reclining while they ate, so leaning while drinking symbolizes freedom and joy. We had fifteen people gathered around two small tables and, as we recline with our glasses – neither a particularly easy nor comfortable task – the wine bottle tips over. There is a collective gasp, then giggling as the red stain spreads quickly on the white linens. Noam runs to the kitchen for salt, but, as he pours it onto the stain, the lid pops off and a mound of salt pours onto the table. “With all your offerings ye shall offer salt.” Steve quips and the table roars.
And, so, Pesach began.