Last weekend, Jews everywhere gathered 'round the dinner table and stuffed their mouths with all of the matzo they could find. No, for those of you who don't know, this is not how they observe Easter Sunday. This is how they observe Passover, one of the few Jewish holidays that reformed Jews actually celebrate.
Passover is best known for bringing Jews matzo: that flat, gross, bread thing that only tastes good when smothered in cheese and sauce. But anyway, Passover is probably my favorite Jewish holiday next to Chanukah. For the second year in a row, I'm stuck in Bloomington, miles away from home and the nearest kosher deli, missing the annual family Seder. I decided something had to be done. There was no way I could forego another year without Grandma's famous matzo-ball soup.
I insisted that my friends and I have our own Passover Seder. Quickly, the old Jewish grandmother living deep inside of me came alive. Out came unforeseen maternal instincts I never knew I had. Suddenly cooking a homemade meal seemed second nature to me. It was like I saw into the future and suddenly I was 70-years-old and wearing dark lipstick that would stain your cheeks for days.
I went out and hit every supermarket in town in search of the kosher section for some Manischewitz. I grabbed every last box of matzo-ball mix and put them in my shopping cart. I cleared out the whole shelf; my apologies to the next person coming to Kroger, hoping to have matzo balls at their Seder…
I got home and headed straight to the kitchen. I boiled the broth, added the matzo balls, sliced the carrots, chopped the celery, cut the onions, shook the salt; I achieved Jewish grandmother nirvana.
I walked the soup over to my friends' apartment with my oven mitts and apron still on. I began serving everyone just like my grandma does. It's actually harder than you'd think, getting the right proportion of soup to matzo balls. I even took special requests like “no carrots" and “less broth."
By the end of the night, I was dead, and it was probably only 9:30 or so. But I went back to my apartment, took out my dentures and got into bed.
It was strange how much I had changed into a Jewish grandma for the day. I didn't even know I had that in me! The shopping, the cooking, the serving—it's like I aged 50 years overnight. When did I even get married?
This experience in a way prepared me for my inevitable transformation into a Jewish grandmother. And hey, it was fun, and even a little therapeutic. If only finding a nice Jewish boy was as easy as dicing celery… oy vey.
