I am ashamed. Deeply ashamed.
Full disclosure: I do not pull all-nighters. My knuckles do not bleed. My voice isn’t hoarse from ammonia-inhalation my eyes are not bloodshot and I don’t subsist on black coffee from Shabbos Hagadol through Leil HaSeder.
I’m a strange combination of old-fashioned and 21st century. I’m old-fashioned in my mind but new-age when it’s to my advantage. Old-fashioned in that yes Pesach cleaning includes spring cleaning and organizing closets Cheerios may not cross my threshold after Shushan Purim and not a single bottle of kosher l’Pesach olive oil may enter my domain until my kitchen is fully and completely metallic.
But I’m not as archaic in my preparations as I should or could be. No not a Pesach hotel heaven forfend but I’m actually quite new-age in that I rely on my husband for help. And Carla. Definitely Carla. My own energy would be wasted on a refrigerator when that can be given to Carla. My energy is far better spent dividing the old clothing in the boys’ closet into lawn bags to be given away put away or donated to the Rags-for-Cash tzedakah in my neighborhood. Trust me that’s Pesach cleaning; I find more pretzels and crumbs in those pants pockets than Carla finds in the basement freezer she’s hosing down.
Even my mother who pulled all-nighters whose knuckles bled and who was hoarse from ammonia-inhalation finally allowed herself to be convinced by my father that bleach was the most mehudar chometz-busting tool out there; thus toothpicks Brillo and Dust-busters were not really necessary on the washing machine gasket. A simple wipe-down with a rag and bleach is just great. (Even after two decades of marriage I still hear my father’s voice asking when was the last time we ate a meal behind the dryer.)
