A Tale of Two Seders

"A Portrait of Brooklyn" by Bob Cherofsky


I thought about doing a Dickensian thing- you know, it was the best of briskets, it was the worst of kugels… but that would not be true or fair. It’s more about the fact that this year, for the first time in just about 15 years, I did not spend the two seders with my regular family- the Hertzsons. I was invited by Charlotte to spend the 1st seder with her family at her niece’s house in Monsey, NY. I like an adventure, so I went, promising the Hertzson/Woytoviches my presence at the second night. I felt Like Holly Go-Lightlywitz. Such a social whirl!

Dress Code- Charlotte said dress Yom Tov- not fancy, but Yom-Tov. Interestingly enough this made sense to me. Charlotte and I occasionally share a common language- her heart definitely speaks to mine when words are less than clear. I wore a skirt and 4” heels. Had I known Bob would give me the walking tour of his beautiful collection of Japanese maples I might have re-thought that particular choice. I viewed the botanical splendor up to my ankles in the garden's soft spring dirt. Charlotte’s sister Pearl, who had only met me once before seemed to have a very clear recollection of me- “Were you this tall the last time I met you?” Caught. I’m not quite 5’4” but I can fake it to most folks as long as they do not look at my feet (I think of myself as “should have been 5’7””- it works, kind of) I claimed I’d been stretching ( and internally vowed to start stretching… Spring, renewal, and all that jazz..)


At the Hertzson’s the dress code is- it shouldn’t have food on it- or if it does have food on it- it should be kosher for Passover. Usually when I visit the Hertzson’s they hand me an apron at the train station and I take it off as I board the train to return home. This eliminates the food issue. Though sometimes I forget and someone at Penn Station asks me if I lost my hot dog cart as I disembark from the train.

Pets- the Hertzson’s have none- the four children, their cousins and children of friends make for a state fair -like atmosphere on even the most solemn occasions. They did at one time have a guinea Pig named Tiger Moo (I loved that name, the result of hyphenating two of the children’s suggestions for naming the new pet) I am not certain what happened to Tiger Moo, but as I know Guinea Pig is probably not kosher for Passover (or any other time… being piggy and all) I figure he went on to greener…aquariums.

Charlotte’s niece Debbie and her husband Bob seemed to have no end of compassion for foundling cats and one stray dog. I only saw two cats, Jack, a young mackerel tabby and a pretty gray cat of almost 14 years of age who spent the seder sitting on Bob’s lap- presumably because having him on the table would have made several of the older attendees of the seder less than comfortable. Me- I’m a cat person- But it was the dog who provided me with an interesting combination of comfort and discomfort. I love dogs (I am also a dog person- sue me) I sat petting the lovely brindled stray as he slid closer and closer to me on the couch- and I asked. “What’s the dog’s name?” the answer “Brooklyn”. It seems he was found in Brooklyn, a much abused stray. The thing is and was…"Brooklyn" is also my nickname in certain quarters. Throughout the evening someone would yell “Brooklyn, no!” and I would jump. And when Brooklyn made off with Tess’s plate of chopped liver, frankly after 2 repetitions of “BAD Brooklyn!” I have to say I was a bit more than mildly unsettled. In truth, the family’s attitude was one of true empathy and understanding. As Debbie removed the chopped liver plate that had been “Brooklyned” she spoke to him sotto voce “Look, I know it’s liver…and you’re a dog…” Brooklyn hung on every word, and surrepticiously eyed the hand with the chopped liver plate. As Debbie’s hand was poised over the trash can, she looked into Brooklyn’s eyes and said “I know this is rewarding bad behavior …” and sighed, as did Brooklyn as Debbie handed him the remaining liver. Passover is for everyone after all.

The Children. The Hertzson’s children start at 13 and descend in age. At Debbie and Bob’s the children start at 10 and go up- as long as you are under 21 you count as a kid. The age difference really showed during the hunt for the hidden matzoh- the afikomen. In Debbie’s household the “kids” teamed up Survivor style and found it as a group ransoming the afikomen for a set amount per child to be donated to the charity of the young people’s choice. At the Hertzson’s the eldest son hid the afikomen and 4 cleverly disguised fakes so well the littlest child dissolved into tears before all the fakes had been found. At five years old the supply of patience for waiting for dessert is quite short.

I think the best part of both seders centered around the youngest ones. At the Hertzson’s five year old Rosaline gave a stunning virtuoso performance. When we came to the portion of the seder where the 4 questions are read she lifted a brightly colored tempera painted box and brought it to her mother, plopped in her lap and opened the box with the same reverence a concert pianist opens a Steinway. She handed her mother 4 lollypop shaped signs to hold up while she proceeded to sing all four questions flawlessly, from memory, in Hebrew (remember here, she’s FIVE- I can’t remember 4 things on a grocery list unless I write it on the inside of my wrist). She also sang the questions in English- the timing was tricky but Streisand could not have accomplished it with more grace. I felt her tiny piping voice carving the memory of that moment into my heart. It was the clearest illustration, for me, that the true mission of the seder had been accomplished – this child knew she was Jewish, why she was there, and the meaning of being free, and she held it up (in crayon and manila paper and popsicle sticks, and occasional two-part harmony) for everyone to see.

At Debbie and Bob’s it was not the youngest child at the seder, but their youngest who made an impression. Emily was not able to be at the seder, Debbie announced, as she was away for her 1st year of college and had classes both that day and the following day. You could hear the heaviness in Debbie’s heart as she spoke, putting a face on that said she was glad for everyone else’s presence there, as glad as she could be without her littlest one.

About a half an hour into the seder the door opened and Bob gasped as Emily walked into the room. Tears sprang from her mother’s, aunts’ and grandmother’s eyes (mine too, I love a happy ending). Pearl asked “How did you get here?” as she kissed her on the cheek making her rounds to hug each family member in turn. “I stole a car” Emily said. “Good”. Said Pearl, more than a little satisfied that in this case the ends justified any and all means.

I did not have these traditions or big dinners at Passover growing up. My family was not that big and for a variety of reasons non-observant. But each year I see these ceremonies and rituals and children growing up in them. I see families flung by the way we live our lives to all corners of the world, busy with work- with living, and dying and being born. I attend gatherings like these two very special moments in time and I see the wisdom in them. A reminder of what is important. Passover celebrates freedom, and certainly in these days there are many choices we are completely free to make. But the gathering, the ritual- the semi-solid gravy and forgetting at least one dish in the oven, the bad jokes and tender familial eccentricities- the rituals remind us we are Jewish, but all of the rest, make it family, make it home, and in the end, make coming home the only choice and the best one.

Azizum Pesach. Hag Sameach.

:) X