Growing up, one of the main values taught to Jews is that no matter what, no Jewish person should be alone on any holiday. This practice is one of my favorites since I’ve been living away from my family for the past five years and have always been welcome in all of my friends’ houses for the holidays. (Shout out to the Levy’s, Lapidus’s, Schuster’s, Kaplan’s, and any other Jewish sounding name I forgot to mention).
Right now, the holiday I’m celebrating is Passover. This is said to be the holiday that is the last to go with assimilating families, and that even the least observant Jews celebrate it one way or another. This year, I was privileged (understatement) to be a part of the complete other end of the spectrum as me (my dad is a Rabbi…) and witness a Passover seder (the ritual dinner commemorating the exodus from Egypt) quickly spiraling down into the depths of “this is totally not traditional”ness.
I show up to my lesbian friend’s house (I have to include the lesbian part, not because I’m into the labels but because it’s an integral part to the story) wearing a skirt suit and heels and a kosher-for-passover rainbow cake (I didn’t even realize the irony of the rainbow until it was the only thing they liked about the cake later that night).
During the pre-seder wine drinking (which eventually turned into me finishing an entire bottle of a fine red wine just to cope with my surroundings and the fact that if my dad knew what was going on he’d cry out to g-d in agony about his daughter falling off the path and letting go to waste the 50 pounds of kosher-for-passover food he shipped to me at my school) my friend’s mom comes downstairs crying that Passover is ruined because the new chef at their country club cooked a bland brisket and oily potato pancakes (I apologize for the rich Jewish stereotype but it had to spur from some truth…)
The tipsy dad (whose balls I had just seen earlier when I was introduced to him while he was stretching after his workout in his private upstairs gym) suggested we go out to eat instead at The Palm and just bring our Matzah with us. I liked this plan because we had already crossed the point of no return in terms of ditching the traditions and, hey, I’ve never been to The Palm.
The younger sister (also tipsy), who was vocal about her desire for the seder to end early so that she could get laid by her visiting boyfriend, suggested we stay in so that we can get drunk easier and order Chinese food. At this point the family turns to me to get confirmation from the Rabbi’s daughter that it’s ok to eat Chinese food as long as there are no noodles. Through my tears (I’ve been suppressing laughter for an hour at this point) I said of course.
Waiting for the food to arrive, we discussed vagina in-grown hairs, a naked 4′by 4′photograph of the mother hanging upstairs, phone sex stories (just lesbian ones), and how hot Israeli’s are (the only thing the mom could say to get her kids to visit the Holy Land). In the middle of the conversation we realized that the rock music playing in the background was by a group called “The Maccabees”, at which point we felt reassured that we were being good Jews.
The food arrived and everyone got comfy in their sweatpants to begin the retelling of the exodus (yes, I’m still wearing heels). The dad started to read one line in English, the 12-year-old brother continued the next passage, the mom started to sing her favorite song “Dayenu” (which at my house consists of it’s 20 verses) and after one botched Hebrew line the sister yells “Look! In 20 pages it says we can eat!” The family concurs that after 1.5 minutes of retelling the biggest event in our people’s history, it is time to eat.
The housekeeper began to serve us our Chinese take-out (because the mom was so tired of preparing the food she needed an extra hand…?). The Hispanic woman (she has no name because her and I were never properly introduced) had seen the country club’s matzah-ball soup and therefore she correctly assumed that this soup is Jewish traditional food. Our first course was then served: matzah balls in a bowl of lobster sauce. The family of drunk perverts thought this was the funniest thing to ever happen to them (as did I) and we agreed that this would be the most memorable holiday gathering ever.
In the end, whoever was sober enough to remain at the table for dessert, got to participate in my embarrassment (although at this point I don’t even think I would have embarrassed myself had I stripped naked and performed an interpretive dance of the Jews leaving Egypt on top of the dinner table, still wearing my heels). My kosher-for-passover (aka tasting-like-ass) cake was actually served by the housekeeper, at which point I explained that I had merely meant it for decoration in honor of my lesbian friend instead of actual digestion, since the family couldn’t even stomach great tasting brisket (in my opinion, but what do I know about country club cooking?).
At the end of the night I was sad to leave the seder, but the family was happy it was over: dad knocked out, sister about to get laid, mom still laughing about the “soup”, housekeeper with leftovers to eat for days. It’s nights like these that remind me how great Jews are–no matter the circumstances, no matter someone’s observance level, nothing matters– as long as I’m Jewish, I’m welcome anywhere to experience holidays as fantastic as this one was.
