Noshing: A Bagel on Passover
Why is this year different from all other years?
For the first time in my life, I’m not keeping kosher for Pesach (Passover) and I’m feeling weird about it. Last night was the first night of the holiday and my partner and I ate a baked potato on our couch while watching Prince of Egypt. At the very least, we checked off the eat-while-reclining-on-pillows part of the Seder (the ritual meal of the first two nights of Pesach where we tell the story of the Exodus).
I grew up in a typical southern Californian Conservative (the movement of Judaism, not the right side of the political spectrum) Jewish-American household. We always kept kosher, or what some refer to as kosher-style; I never ate anything made from pigs, shellfish, or other unkosher animals, but we only had one set of plates and cooking equipment for animal milk and meat dishes and weren’t strict on only buying heckshered (kosher certified) foods.
Each year during Pesach my family cleaned out our kitchen and fridge, taped off our pantry containing chametz (foods that are leavened or contain leavening ingredients AKA not kosher for Pesach), and stocked our kitchen with matzah, coconut macaroons, kosher for Passover cereal—which I do not have fond memories of—Dr. Brown’s soda, and other packaged goods. Our fridge was full of brisket, chicken soup with matzo balls, charoset (a sweet paste made from fruits and wine to symbolize the mortar Jews used to build structures for Pharaoh when we were enslaved), horseradish, hard-boiled eggs, parsley, gefilte fish, noodle kugel, and other dishes that were my family’s customary holiday foods.
Unlike many of my peers, who were also raised kosher or lived in kosher homes, I was never curious about eating bacon, pepperoni pizza, or fried shrimp, and I didn’t sneak chametz at school during Pesach. I didn’t feel limited by keeping kosher and by elementary school I was a pro at reading nutrition labels to spot ingredients I didn’t eat. Then by middle school, I was vegetarian—something that others also considered limiting or restrictive—which made keeping kosher even easier. I’m not sure that my family also felt my choices were easy but they were always accommodating.
Each spring when Pesach came around, my dad would make a giant pot of matzo ball soup for our family and a smaller pot for my mom and me that was free from chicken meat and schmaltz (chicken fat). I skipped the brisket and gefilte fish but ate plenty of potatoes, matzo ball soup, matzah pizzas, hard-boiled eggs, matzah brei, and macaroons. I never actually enjoyed matzah—and was confused why non-Jewish kids at school always wanted to try some—but each year I ate the world’s dryest, crumbliest, flavorless cracker for about three meals a day for eight days.
The biggest shift in my kosher observance came in college, where I spent my first two years living off dorm food in Bloomington, Indiana. While in the dorms I had no pantry to tape off, no kitchen for making Pesach-friendly foods, and outside of maybe going to a Seder at Hillel I was on my own to find animal-free, non-chametz foods. Freshman year I welcomed kitniyot (legumes, rice, and other foods Ashkenazi Jews avoid(ed) during Pesach until the Conservative movement removed this prohibition in 2015, though many still refrain from eating them) into my diet. This was partly a nod to my Sephardic ancestry but mainly because I needed to.
Once I left the dorms, Pesach and other Jewish holiday celebrations became cooking dinner with my camp friends—those who also didn’t travel home to be with family—in whoever’s apartment kitchen was the biggest. Finding kosher for Pesach matzah in Bloomington grocery stores was nearly impossible but we made do and these meals were some of my fondest college memories. The holidays in grad school were different and much more isolated. I still observed Pesach but only in what I ate or, I guess, what I didn’t eat. Then the pandemic hit and for the first time since I was 17, I moved back to California.
Over the past few years, my holiday celebrations have been small and entirely food-based, but in a new way. I was once again living with my partner, we had a kitchen, and I got to cook. We slowly began forming our traditions and choosing how we observed our holidays, both in our shared home and as individuals who grew up with different levels of kosher observance and family customs. While we are sometimes able to share holiday meals with my partner’s parents or a friend, many holidays are just the two of us. I love cooking, especially for holidays, and have always found comfort in cleaning our kitchen for Pesach, clearing out space in our cabinet for non-chametz foods, and sharing my holiday menus through photos and videos on social media.
And now Pesach is here, again. Except this year, I have no holiday mealspo to share with my followers and I’m not keeping kosher for Pesach.
Why is this year different from all other years?
Well, to be fair Pesach may be different this year for so many people and so many reasons. For some, a holiday that comes with strict food rules may be triggering and negatively impact one’s health so they may observe or commemorate it in ways other than avoiding chametz. Some people may be dealing with crises or living in situations where they cannot choose their food or may lack access to a kitchen or community meals. For others, it’s hard to observe Pesach in the context of dire geopolitical events. This year, adaptations are being made across the global Jewish community. For me, this year is different in a, perhaps comparatively selfish, sense.
We are finally escaping our apartment, which—as I’ve briefly mentioned in past newsletters—has been a very unsafe space over the past four months. To balance the stress of moving along with full-time work schedules and dealing with our toxic apartment and toxic landlords we started packing our belongings—those not lost to mold damage—a couple of weeks ago. This also means most of our kitchen equipment, spices, and dishes have been boxed up. Having to plan for our move and also plan for a holiday, which usually involves me spending 2-3 days cooking almost every meal from scratch, felt like too much. And since I haven’t yet found a local Jewish community, and don’t have the space and time for cooking and hosting or the opportunity to travel to be with family, I’m not having Seder(s) this year.
And I’m feeling weird about it.
Adapting and doing one’s best is part of being Jewish. Judaism has entire holidays commemorating times in history when we had to change our rituals or religious practices due to our environment and external events. We prioritize needs and health above all else and, in consideration of these priorities, we have many exceptions to our “rules”. In all other years, I’ve leaned into this and adapted my practice and observance to my situation, as I mentioned above. In all the reflecting I’ve done over the past few weeks, and especially the past twenty-four hours, I do not feel that my choice this year is wrong or that I should have done something different.
So why do I still feel weird?
The most prominent thought emerging in my mental ruminations is that I am holding myself to what I could have done.
I could have tried to plan ahead.
I could have left out some cooking supplies and Tupperware and dedicated at least a few hours to some Pesach-friendly cooking.
I could have, at the very least, bought a box of matzah—something that has yet to make it off this week’s very long to-do list.
I could have taken a break from packing and schlepped through rush hour traffic to spend a few hours with my partner’s family.
I could have tried to seek out an invite to a community Seder in San Francisco.
I could have taken a break to Facetime into someone’s Seder.
I could have skipped buying half a dozen bagels the day before Pesach started.
There are so many things I could have done, or at least tried to do.
But I chose ease.
And the accompanying weirdness is bigger than the feeling I would expect from a deviation from my usual practice and traditions. The feeling of this specific weirdness is most aligned with the feeling I know as guilt. But a guilt that is distinctly foreign and easily discernable from times when I’ve felt guilty because I’ve acted out of line with who I believe I am or who I want to be. It’s guilt that I’ve internalized living in a society where doing the most is not only expected but encouraged. Even indirectly, I’ve been taught that could and should are synonymous.
If I could do something then not doing it is a personal failure. This is perhaps a lasting impact of the imperialism of Protestant-esque work ethics and the moralization of rest, or idleness, along with industrialized capitalism’s weaponization of time and the false equivalence that time is money and people’s time and labor are commodities that can be owned.
Continuing to probe at this weird-guiltyish-feeling I recognize that even if my situation is shitty right now I still have immense privilege. Choosing to do what I want and what feels best for me at this moment is acting on some of that privilege. I’ve spent many years in therapy working to identify my true wants and needs and then trying to act on them. This work of connecting with myself has been difficult and still doesn’t feel natural. Choosing ease and trying to approach myself with gentleness usually comes with weirdness and the discomfort of actively rejecting both could-haves and should-haves.
My discomfort around my choice is because I have been thinking about observing Pesach and keeping kosher within the framework of a false dichotomy; either I do or I don’t, without room for anything to exist in between. My Judaism, my kosher practice, my veganism, and all of the other things that I trust to guide me on a daily basis have always rejected this fallacy in favor of growth and accommodation for the human experience.
This choice for ease is not a moral failure and it is not selfish. Choosing a bagel for breakfast is for convenience it is not a lack of commitment to my peoplehood, culture, or beliefs. Choosing ease was not a wicked choice, nor was it a wise choice, a simple choice, or a choice I made because I did not know how to choose. It was just a choice.
Strangely enough, all that accompanied this choice offered me an unexpected and deeper connection to this holiday. Had I chosen the could-haves, I would have been so focused on preparing to participate in and accomplish the rituals efficiently that I would have seen them as more tasks to check off my to-do list rather than sacred opportunities to practice gratitude for the strength of my ancestors, the freedoms I know today, and the opportunity I have to use my freedoms to free others.
Chag Pesach sameach. Happy Passover.
Next year, may we all be free.
Guilt is a quintessential Jewish emotion (though I know it afflicts other faiths as well!). Even by feeling conflicted about your choices, you’re carrying on a tradition with which I am all too familiar! Chag sameach! Hope you have an enjoyable Pesach with or without matzah, though I completely disagree with you on the tastelessness of matzah—I love it topped with a lot of things you might not eat, like butter, cheese, cream cheese, but also jam, peanut butter, avocado and pizza toppings.
Wow, incredibly well written!