The hardest part about celebrating Easter and Passover with my extended
interfaith clan in Florida is extricating ourselves from the multigenerational
lovefest–and leaving behind all the leftovers when we fly home. My family
gathers from England, California, New York and Washington. For three days this
year we planned, shopped and cooked for the Easter dinner and the Passover
Seder. When we drove to the airport to get the kids back to school at the end of
their spring break we regretfully left behind the leftover brisket, roast
potatoes and carrots, matzoh ball soup, charoset, and chocolate-toffee matzoh
for my siblings and cousins with later school vacations. Oh, and a spiral-cut
honey-baked Easter ham (from one of those “Hams R Us” stores), and lots of
Easter candy.
Once again this year, my 87-year-old father was there to preside over our Seder. Each year seems unbearably precious to me, and we move heaven and earth to be there. We also illegally move giant glasstop dining tables from three condos into one, to fit all 20 family members. And my father hires a piano company to move a piano in for two weeks, so that he can play the jazz standards and Pennsylvania polkas and Irish reels that form the soundtrack to our multicultural lives. We make a joyful noise: one year we were threatened with eviction.
My sister from New York is raising her kids Jewish–my nephew is preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. (My mother is his only Christian grandparent). My brother and sister-in-law from California are raising their three kids Catholic. (My father is their only Jewish grandparent). My seven-year-old niece is attending CCD classes, preparing for her First Holy Communion, and she said a lovely grace at Easter dinner, dressed in her spring dress and tiny gold cross.
My niece, and her siblings, attend a Catholic Montessori school, and they had just taken part in the school’s reenactment of The Last Supper during Holy Week. After years of Passover in Florida with us, they understand The Last Supper as a Seder.
Once again this year, my 87-year-old father was there to preside over our Seder. Each year seems unbearably precious to me, and we move heaven and earth to be there. We also illegally move giant glasstop dining tables from three condos into one, to fit all 20 family members. And my father hires a piano company to move a piano in for two weeks, so that he can play the jazz standards and Pennsylvania polkas and Irish reels that form the soundtrack to our multicultural lives. We make a joyful noise: one year we were threatened with eviction.
My sister from New York is raising her kids Jewish–my nephew is preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. (My mother is his only Christian grandparent). My brother and sister-in-law from California are raising their three kids Catholic. (My father is their only Jewish grandparent). My seven-year-old niece is attending CCD classes, preparing for her First Holy Communion, and she said a lovely grace at Easter dinner, dressed in her spring dress and tiny gold cross.
My niece, and her siblings, attend a Catholic Montessori school, and they had just taken part in the school’s reenactment of The Last Supper during Holy Week. After years of Passover in Florida with us, they understand The Last Supper as a Seder.
No comments:
Post a Comment