It's Not the Same as an Easter Egg
On childhood frustration with Passover.
My son wanted to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Sunday night before bed, so I made him watch the Rugrats Passover episode instead. (The holiday starts this upcoming Saturday.) I can tolerate my Jewish son watching Rudolph on repeat around Christmas time, but I find it too annoying for any other time of year. He was distraught and appalled. Why, oh why, couldn’t he watch his favorite show? Why did he have to watch a scary show about grainy cartoon babies instead? He wailed. Looking at him with a knowing smile, I ran my hand lovingly through his hair. Welcome to Judaism, my son.
When I was a child, I had a similar dilemma. I longed to go to an Easter egg hunt. I wanted to search our backyard for plastic eggs and crack them open only to find those bright pink and green tinfoil-covered egg-shaped chocolates. Now that’s a holiday, I thought to my tiny self. (I did not know the real story of Easter.) I begged and pleaded with my mother to make one for me. When she declined, I turned to my grandma and grandfather, who were usually more amenable to my requests. I remember tugging at my grandma’s apron while she was in her kitchen, hunched over her stove, perfecting her chicken broth, as I made my case, fixing my eyes as wide and as doe-eyed as they could go.
My grandfather overheard the commotion and, in an attempt to make me feel better, shouted, “Mayn kinderlach (Yiddish for "my child"), Passover has eggs! Your grandma made egg and salt water soup!” This dish, which is a broth of ice-cold salt water and chopped-up hard-boiled eggs, is a Seder meal staple that is supposed to commemorate the tears and sweat of our ancestors' enslavement in Egypt. Not exactly Hallmark-branded fun.
I cried Jewish tears of my own as I shouted, “That is not the same kind of egg!” He then offered another suggestion of how Passover could fulfill my egg needs by sharing that we had our version of a ball with a surprise in the middle—my grandma’s homemade matzah balls, which, while I loved her cooking, were dense and tasteless. The surprise in the middle, which my Grandpa loved, were gribenes: crispy chicken skin cracklings. However, the crispy chicken skin became a chewy worm in the middle of a matzah ball. Again, not the same as an Easter egg.
So, as my son lamented our religion while we watched Tommy Pickles liberate the Jews from Egyptian bondage, I felt pulled to get into the holiday spirit. I ordered matzah covers for him and his brother to draw on. I made the matzah toffee my other grandma would bring from Arizona to Minnesota in a wax paper-lined shoebox, and I smiled knowing that tradition lives on.
Unfortunately, there are no pictures of matzah balls with gribenes in the middle. This is kind of what it’s like. If you smiled, leave a heart, or tell me your odd holiday memories below.
I remember one Seder we went to a new-ish family friends house. I was probably 10 and the family were Peruvian Jews. Their Grandpa was there and it was clear he had a story - i could sense everyone existing around him. People spoke in Spanish in his presence and quickly switched to English around everyone else. When we searched for the afikomen, he took out his wallet and gave $100 bills to all the kids. It felt like I became a millionaire overnight. My parents went up to their friend and said that this was too kind and they would give back the money to the grandfather. Their friend looked at my parents and said, don’t say a word and don’t even contemplate doing such a thing. I’ve always wondered what his story was. I spent my $100 at Delia’s, of course.
When I was growing up my mom let us color eggs and put them in plastic baskets (the kind cherry tomatoes come in) with the plastic grass. I never understood why my conservadox raised, kosher with glass dishes and two sets of cutlery mother ever let us do that, and I didn’t do it with my own kids. But I gladly would exchange that memory for one that involved making and eating any matzah crack!