They would not settle for anything less than the best, so we, too, will do our best
Few things arouse childhood memories like Pesach. For some, it might be the Sedorim stretching into the wee hours of the night, for others it’s the memory of standing on a chair and reciting the Mah Nishtanah to the cheers of the adoring adults. And for others, the Yom Tov itself may not leave as deep an impression as the frenzied preparations that lead up to it, which makes one wonder — if Pesach didn’t fall on a definitive date, would we be doomed to prepare for it forever?
Personally, and gratefully, I have fond recollections of all of these, and then some.
But nothing is seared in my memory like the awe and reverence my mother a”h displayed toward the Torah’s prohibitions against chometz and anything remotely chometz-related. As the youngest of four brothers, I vividly recall the bein hazmanims when we were home and left with specific instructions about what needed to be done during the day while our mother was at work. “The Box” on the kitchen table (as well as Mrs. Rothstein’s leftover shaloch manos cake) held everything that was supposed to sustain us through the hungry days leading up to Yom Tov, when we would finally get to indulge in ladyfingers and matzah with butter.
One of my older brothers appointed himself foreman and doled out jobs to everyone else. I had the privilege of cleaning the grout in the bathroom tiles, all the while wondering what chometz could possibly be found there. It was a mystery to me, but I did as I was told. Later that day, I was caught noshing on a freeze pop within ten feet of the sealed boxes of wine (who cares if it was only kitniyos, and a full week before Pesach) and was duly “busted” for undermining the entire kashrus of the house. In my youthful naïveté, I figured it was a Plotnik thing, and nobody else could possibly approach Pesach the same way. Was I mistaken!
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