Ma nishtahnah

Every year my aunt and uncle (my father’s younger brother) host the first night of Passover (i.e., Pesach, for those in the know) at their home in the suburbs of New York City. It serves as the annual family reunion for my father’s side. For obvious reasons, this year was unlike all other years. Instead of being all together, we connected over Zoom. Finding the traditional foodstuffs proved even more challenging this year, requiring that I channel my inner-McGuyver with a dose of terrible wit. Unable to locate a lamb bone, I substituted a sweet potato dubbed “the Pascal Yam.” Generations of my Yiddish comedian ancestors were no doubt kvelling.

It was the most connected to the Exodus story that I have ever felt. Despite the challenges and the anxiety of our present situation, we came out of it last night. It did not stop us from celebrating our history, our faith, our love for one another, and the joy of knowing that we are always together even when we are physically separated.

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