
Happy almost-Passover! Today I am eyeing my tiny living room (soon to be dining room), counting the chairs and wineglasses, wondering who I can call to borrow another folding table and hoping there'll be enough cloth napkins and bowls to go around, since, after all, the eggs in salt water must be followed immediately by the matzoh ball soup.
This is the pre-Seder countdown familiar to anyone cobbling together an urban Passover dinner. Just as at Thanksgiving, a successful Seder menu must teeter along the line between Grandma's Traditions and The Way We Eat Now.
For example, what would happen if I went all Manhattan-chic and served tiny, peel-your-own speckled quail eggs with smoked paprika and sea salt for dipping instead of those typically rubbery hard-boiled eggs in salt water? Can the roast chicken be rubbed with Moroccan chermoula paste, made with cilantro, cumin, garlic, and my own preserved Meyer lemons? Do I want to risk all the magenta splatters (and dyed fingers) that come along with the now-traditional pomegranate beet salad with blood oranges and olive oil? Will my garden plot give up enough karpas (spring greens) for everyone?
Should this be the year I finally get around to making my own gefilte fish like my mother and grandmother did, or would the frozen Ungar's logs from Mollie Stone's be just as good? Will my grandmother's savory matzoh kugel, really an onion-celery-mushroom stuffing at heart, made with sheets of matzoh instead of bread, be out of place among these spiced and oiled updates? And the final question: flourless chocolate or Passover angel-food cake? Jelly rings or Barton's almond kisses? Can I hold fast to my loathing of coconut, or must there be macaroons?
As you can tell, I look forward every year to Passover, the eight-day celebration of the Jews' exodus from Egypt, and the accompanying dinner ritual known as the Seder, which begins the holiday this Monday at sundown. Like the crew that started the now-traditional Obama Seder, I see no reason to let a lack of chairs or matching wineglasses deter me from welcoming all who are hungry to come and eat. 13 people in a studio apartment? Bring up your piano bench and that extra card table, and we're in business! I've gone to Marxist Seders, lesbian-feminist Seders, a grandly traditional one overlooking Central Park West and one in Berkeley where the kugel, brisket and charoseth were all whipped up by the Swedish au pair. (I did, however, decline an invitation to a nude Seder one year. Seders can be many things, but naked is not one of them, at least for me.)