Growing up, Passover was a labor of love.
My mother and grandmother hovered over a hot pot of simmering chicken soup, roasted enough Chicken Marbella for an army, whipped up a light-as-air strawberry mousse, and lovingly formed homemade gefilte fish. We would open our home to “all who are hungry, let them come eat,” as written in our wine-stained Haggadah. I’ve now turned into my own mother, inviting hungry guests to our Passover seders. I revel in sharing my love for Jewish cuisine with both Jews and non-Jews alike, thinking outside of the matzo box for an inclusive seder—no matter the faiths, or diets of my guests—while paying homage to the dinner tables of generations past.
Around my Passover table, we dig into plant-forward dishes that remind me of home as well as the homes of Jews across the globe who end their Passover meal with “next year in Jerusalem,” sharing songs and stories of freedom. This year, Passover feels a little different. It is a stark reminder that we are not yet free, and our home in Jerusalem is under fire. But Passover isn’t about just recalling the stories of yore, Passover is a time to remember, to reflect and vow to learn, grow, and keep our promise of never again.
This year, I’ll include a pomegranate to honor the strength of Israeli women, and I’ll light an extra candle for those held hostage, a memorial (Yahrzeit) candle for those that we’ve lost since October 7th. This year, Passover feels heavy. And sometimes the only way past is through. We will drink our four cups of wine, recline, and lean to the left while we remember, persevere, and once again, say “next year in Jerusalem.”
