Custom reconciles us to everything.
Edmund Burke


When I was the house manager of our sorority, one of my duties was organizing our holiday dinners. Our cook, Cathy swore she followed the Jewish recipes we gave her but our latkes and gefilte fish had a suspiciously Southern tang. She deep fried our Friday night chicken and although she denied it, used lard instead of shortening to season our knishes. When we decided to have a traditional Seder for the first night of Passover, I could see real trouble ahead.

“I think we had better prepare the ritual food ourselves,” I told my committee. “And let Cathy do the rest of the meal. I invited Rabbi Morganstern and his family to join us and it would be really embarrassing if we didn’t have the right foods for him to use for the service.”

“I think we should try to recreate the first Seder and make the foods exactly the way our people did that first night on the desert,” said Gail. “That way, it becomes an experience instead of meaningless ritual.”

”What a great idea!” I said. “And it will really impress the rabbi. I saw a recipe for matzos in the back of an old prayer book that sounded really easy. Does anyone know how to make wine?”

“My mother has a great recipe for that,” said Ila Ginsberg. “All our relatives come over our house to taste it during the holiday and leave singing Kletzmer music at the top of their lungs.”

“That IS good wine,” said Gail.

“My mother says all we have to do is put unwashed grapes and rotten fruit in a closed container with lots of sugar,” Ila reported the next day. “ We should put it in a warm place and when it bubbles, add sugar until it tastes sweet enough to serve.”

“That sounds simple,” I said. “Making the matzos is easy too. All we have to do is line the oven with baking tiles to get it hot enough, knead the dough, roll it flat and bake it!”

We all met that next evening to begin our preparations. Ila dumped ten pounds of grapes into Cathy’s soup pot and put it in one of the ovens set on “warm”. I cleaned out the laundry tub to mix the flour, water and salt. “We have to make enough of these things to last eight days,” I explained. “Everyone grab some dough and start kneading.”

We pierced the flattened pancakes with a fork and baked them that night. When we came down into the kitchen a few days later to prepare the Seder plate, the wine mixture looked like a frothing tornado. I handed everyone spoons and we sampled our brew. I felt like I had swallowed a heating pad. “I think the fermentation is coming along a little better than we expected,” I said. “We better get started making that Seder plate before we’re too drunk to get it right.”

Brenda uncovered the matzos we had baked the previous Sunday and tried to separate one from the pile. “These things are stiff as skateboards,” she said. “We’ll need a hammer to break them apart.”

“We need to make the charoset to remind us that life is both bitter and sweet. Who is going to prepare it?” asked Gail.

“Cathy made it,” I said. “She said she’d boil the egg and save a bone for us from her own dinner to put on the plate with the parsley.”

Brenda took the cover off the apple mixture and sniffed. “That smells 90 proof,” she said.

The next night, we all gathered for the service and I felt very proud of our efforts. The table looked just like my mother’s holiday table. Ila poured our homemade wine in everyone’s glass and stood back to admire its lovely red color. As we stared at the filled glasses, they began to foam like beer. “Do you think it’s too strong?” I asked. “Rabbi’s little boy is only six years old.”

“I saw three bottles of Seagram’s and one of vodka in the trash last night when I dumped out the rest of the fruit from the wine,” said Ila. “I wonder if Cathy decided to add her personal touch to our brew.”

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” I said. “The rabbi and his family will be here any second.”

When I uncovered the Seder plate, the shank bone looked suspiciously porcine and the matzos resembled battered rice cakes. The charoseth smelled so strong my eyes watered. By the time we all finished the four glasses of wine called for in the service, none of us could grasp our forks or keep our eyes open. When it was time for the four questions, the rabbi’s son stood up and asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

Ila roared “NO DATES!”

“She means we couldn’t find any dried dates, so we settled for figs and prunes,” I explained. “Go on reading, Nathan.”

Nathan cleared his throat. “Why do we only eat matzos on this night?”

Gail gripped the table and rose to her full height. ”Because we threw away all the bagels!” she exclaimed.

Nathan continued. “Why do we eat bitter herbs . . .?”

And Brenda shouted, “Because we dumped all the sugar in the wine!”

Nathan raised his voice and shouted, “Why do we dip our food in salt water?”

Ila raised her head from the table and whispered, “Darned if I know, honey.”

Nathan had one more question and he wasn’t going to leave center stage until it was asked. ”WHY ON THIS NIGHT DO WE RECLINE?”

Gail pointed at the wine glasses still standing.
“Because we all drank a gallon of that stuff and we are totally sloshed.”

“Time for dinner!” shouted Cathy and she brought out her interpretation of the traditional Passover feast. Those of us still able to sit at the table confronted a shellfish gumbo served with spoon bread before we dug into an unidentifiable fricassee with a side of stuffed oysters and Bourbon cake for dessert.

We turned to see how the rabbi was reacting to this unusual fare, but he was sound asleep. His wife blushed. “I think it was that fifth glass of wine that did it,” she said.

Ila smiled. ”That was our family recipe,” she said. “My grandpa sold it from his backyard still during prohibition. We’ll give you some to take home.”

The rabbi’s wife shook her head. “If I served that at one of our community suppers, we would have to hold an AA meeting in the lobby.”

“Time for Kletzmer dancing” I said. “Who wants to be the trumpet?”

“I will be the drums,” said Ila. “Sing for us, Nathan!”

“But I don’t know the words,” he cried.

“Have another glass of wine, honey and they’ll come to you!” said Brenda.

The rabbi opened his eyes. “Did I remember to say ‘Amen?” he asked.

“Not yet!” we said. “We’re getting ready to do the music!”

“AMEN!” said the rabbi and stood up to lead the dance.