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.

maxwell-houseWe 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.


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