Officially I went to my first Passover ceder on Monday night. Except that I didn't. I lied about it. Yes, I lied about going to a ceder. That's an extra-sinful lie, no matter how you slice it.
I was invited to three ceders this year: two with my mother's side of the family, and one with my father's. That's usually how it goes. And usually it would be physically possible for me to attend all three because my mother's family holds ceders on the official first two nights of Passover, and my father's family picks a convenient night later in the week for everyone to gather. However, I choose not to attend three ceders in one week because that is just too many ceders.
The first ceder was being hosted by my ultra-sensitive aunt. She's still holding a grudge against me from an incident four years ago in which I didn't invite her over to dinner in the correct manner. I invited her, but she didn't like the way in which I issued the invitation. Like I said, sensitive! So I felt I couldn't just say "Three ceders is too many so I'm skipping yours because you're not my parent." I decided that I'd better lie and say I was going to my father's ceder on the first night. What I actually did on Monday was work late, then go home and have gnocchi for dinner and watch two episodes of Grey's Anatomy.
The second ceder was at my mom's house. I showed up two hours before the guests to help her cook and set the table. One thing about family dinners at my mom's house: the table always looks real pretty. She polishes the brass candlesticks until they glow. There's a glass vase on the table with an arrangement of delicate, cut flowers. Silverware and wine glasses catch the light from her old-fashioned chandelier.
This time the alchemy of the evening worked out, and my family got along. Conversation was easy. Stories were told. There was some snapping and grouching, but it was kept to a bare minimum. To be fair, the grouchy people had been up all night looking after a sick child. I would have been cranky too.
The last ceder was at my uncle's house. I showed up at my father's house to bum a ride to Hamilton. My step-mother and sister were busy preparing food for the evening. The dog needed walking. And so, I did something I've never done before. I walked a dog all by myself.
I was a bit wary, even though Pesto is well-behaved. New things are always strange. Plus there was the issue of picking up poop. I've dealt with a lot of cat poop over the years, but dog poop was an unknown. My step-mom handed me two plastic bags shaped like oven mitts. I've never seen such a thing before, but I could tell right away that they would simplify the poop-handling procedure by several orders of magnitude.
I returned from the walk with the dog all in one piece, and a bag of turds swinging jauntily by my side. I had half a mind to pin it to my shirt like a medal. (But I didn't.)
Finally, there was Easter lunch at my in-laws' house this afternoon. I have one thing to say about that lunch: if you're going to a family pot-luck, try set it up so that your brother-in-law is dating a professional pastry chef. Rustic raspberry-peach pie with layers of cake-sponge, jam, and marzipan... *drool* What did everyone else bring? Who the hell cares! It was all about the pie.
What did you do for the holidays?
