“What happens Pesach?”
Yochi stopped short. He looked at Pessie and noted the furrow between her brows. “Pesach?”
Pessie held up the two ends of the dinette Shabbos tablecloth. “Yes,” she said. “Like, if you plan on spending Pesach in Thailand or wherever, how does that work? Putting aside how strange it’s going to be — not exactly a seder with our parents — but like, what about our minhagim? We don’t even use baking powder in our cakes, are we suddenly going to start mishing? Or will I have to cook and schlep all the food along? What’s the plan?”
“Um,” Yochi said. He pulled the plug out of the percolator and lifted the lid. Steam rose. “Honestly, Pessie, Pesach is like ten months away. I didn’t think about it.”
“Maybe we should’ve thought about it before you left the firm. Along with many other hashkafic questions that we by the way never discussed. Like, are you okay with our kids being exposed to all those crazy luxuries? To all the entertainment that their schools are so against?”
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