I used to think Pesach memories were made out of potato starch and eggs.
What’s Pesach if not the dry textured crisp of matzah between your teeth; faltsha fish sweet and aromatic with white pepper; papery egg noodles in golden soup? Bobby’s nut cake moist and airy like a cloud and packed with crunchy walnuts; glistening chunks of potatoes dipped in salt water (as close to a k’zayis as possible please). And everyone’s favorite sandwich — the womenfolk all good granddaughters of our maror-loving Bubby reach for the plate of maror and scoff at the measly amounts piled onto the lettuce by unknowing husbands.
I thought Pesach was about Mommy’s kitchen glinting with foil warm with blazing ovens and joy. Frying latkes until my cheeks flush from the heat while Sister 1 sneaks the crispiest pieces into waiting little hands Sister-in-law peels potatoes and Sister 2 makes Pesachdig lukshen: crack whip pour flip repeat. The early spring breeze wafting into the pungent aromas the crsh-crsh of hand-grating potatoes until your fingers are raw banter and sautéed onions and colorful Magna Tiles strewn everywhere.
But then a friend visited one Pesach morning. She took in the creamy brown potatoes nestled between pieces of caramelized chicken the hiss and crackle of the flame as latkes crisped. Then she smiled almost wistful and told me “You know I love your mother’s house. It’s always so calm.”
