This year’s Passover was less eventful than the last. It was only my brother, my parents, and my uncle… in the dining room of my dad’s bar.
We did this last year, but my father was kind enough to close the bar for two hours. This year we were down a lot of our sedar regulars. So the bar stayed open, and diners looked puzzled at our table full of matzos, haggadahs, and Manischewitz.
I sat down with my dirty martini while my brother nursed a styrofoam cup of coffee. My uncle stacked up the matzo and ate too much horseradish. I ate an olive during the plagues. My mom drank down her glass of red wine.
The music was still on in the bar, and Tom Petty came on: “She’s a good girl–loves her mama. Loves Jesus and America, too.”
That was it. Between the martini, the crowd, and the Jesus, I had begun to giggle. My mom laughed out loud. My brother smiled and tried not to look at us. My father rolled his eyes. Elijah’s glass shook a bit on the table.
Another year, another sedar, another fit of drunken giggles. Some traditions never fade.