A Plague on Your House

Random Thoughts On Everything

Seems like yesterday when our Rabbi dressed up as a fried egg. Soon he’ll buy our chametz* and scatter his plastic locust and frogs.

As Purim’s joy hurtles toward Pesach indigestion, my cupboards must be cleaned, drawers emptied, and my kitchen scoured. Old traditions, as ridiculous as sharing vodka shots with a bearded egg. Only a crazy woman scrubs her already spotless house … then flys to Tel Aviv armed with British teabags, toy plagues and a box of matza … just in case.

Hamas still terrorise Israel’s southern border, Hezbollah squat to the north, the Syrians remain unpredictable, Lebanon unstable. Thousands of miles away, Iran are murderously defiant, the Houthis … certifiable and highly ballistic.

I say hold those rockets whilst we shop in AM:PM, loading our trolley with horrible, kosher for Pesach cereal, the madly expensive biscuits that taste of baked sawdust and dried coconut. Don’t forget the boxes of pallid eggs to be hard boiled until certain to churn in our gut at seder. We’ll be sure to grab the last of the sliced Gouda, its plasticky yellow sheets perfect to eat on the buttered Rakusen’s matza that will surely have crumbled through my suitcase. Duty done, we’ll throw in fresh mint, juicy watermelon, chunks of white feta, and ruby tomatoes that smell like heaven. Add grapes the size of giant marbles, and let’s not forget a jar of chrain, disgusting but apparently essential for the stinky, boiled gefilte fish with its single carrot garnish, that my husband so loves to eat.

Silence those sirens whilst we choose wild daisies and huge bunches of eucalyptus that come wrapped in brown paper, carried hugged to our chests. Re-direct the drones whilst we jostle to buy sweet, red strawberries in the Carmel Market, ripped off as all naïve visitors are. It’s okay we’re helping the economy we’ll tell ourselves. Yes it’s three times the cost of buying fruit in any London supermarket. But here they need our shekels we justify, damp with sweat, flapping at flies, and patting our own backs as the stall-holder smirks. Hag sameach* he will say, turning away in dismissal. Hag sameach we will smile in reply, and then lug home a ton of over-ripe fruit … only good for the jam we won’t be making. Guilted into believing we’ve somehow just done our bit for a country traumatised by war.

Bring on the family seder, the salt water, the weird lokshen, the pinkie dip countdown of plagues, the annual fight over kitniyot*, and who should read the simple son. Outside, the dusk will hang purple and orange over the quiet, narrow streets of old Tel Aviv. The air scented with roast chicken, spices of zatar and paprika, the heady Lilac that blossoms in the garden by our house. From the tiny blue and white synagogue nearby, words of song and prayer will float through our open windows. The scrape of neighbour’s chairs and children’s laughter will accompany recitals of the MaNishtana*. Together we will sit at our table, defiant but hurting. Hope in our broken hearts for peace. Our prayers including the hostages, and all those who have sadly died.

And no matter what the mad Houthis, or others, aim in our direction, we shall as always, celebrate this night, different to all others, knowing the Red Sea parted and no longer slaves, we were free. Dayenu*.

*A quick explanation for a few words that some may not be familiar with…

Chametz = food products made from wheat, barley, rye, oats or spelt that has risen. These are forbidden during Pesach.

Hag sameach = happy holiday

Kitniyot = refers to legumes, rice, corn and grains avoided by some Jews during Pesach but eaten by others.

Ma Nishtana = the four questions asked (usually by the youngest child) on the first night of Pesach at the seder service before dinner.

Dayenu = translates to ‘it would have been enough,’ from a song we sing at seder to express gratitude for all of God’s blessings.