Remembering Seder

Tonight we celebrated Passover with a nice Seder, a festive meal during which the story of the exodus from Egypt is told (rent The Ten Commandments, the movie's better). It was just the five of us, plus my dad and Marcie's folks. It was a lovely evening and a delicious meal, for which I can only take a portion of the credit. Most of the rest goes to my dad and Marice with contributions from her mom as well.

I find myself reflecting on Seders from my past, especially in my teen years, when at least for two nights a year, my house was the center of the family universe. Twenty or twenty five people for Seder wasn't uncommon and the cast of characters made for an unforgettable evening. Allow me to introduce you:

My grandmother Jennie Tasman, who had raised 5 children on her own, lived with us at least half the year. She was in her 90's by now and couldn't hear well. But she was sharp until a fall started a downward spiral that ended with her living in the Jewish Home, no longer grasping that we lived only a few miles away, which was good because we didn't visit her as much as we should have. At least I didn't.

My mom and dad carried the load for the evening - cooking, cleaning, getting out the "good china" and the real silver. I can still smell that wooden chest opening when it was time to get the silver. My job was usually to unfold The Table. You have to see this thing to believe it. It's from the late 50's and made of teak. Folded it is about 8 inches wide. From the side it looks like a squared off letter M. Then you start to unfold it, revealing up to 4 "leaves", all connected by hidden hinges and supported underneath by legs that swing out. You can fit 14 people easily around it. Sometimes for second Seder that was all we needed, but on the first night it was that table plus an 8 footer we kept in the basement.

My dad was a trained chef and was usually in charge of the brisket and the turkey. For some reason breast of veal became a staple for a few years. I don't think I've ever seen that on a restaurant menu, let alone had it in anyone else's home. But back then I was eating red meat and I can assure you, it was the best damn breast of veal around. My mom did a lot of the sides - tzimis and koogle I recall. And the soup - matzo balls so light they would float, or so I recall people saying, especially when comparing them to my Aunt Zelda, who was a) not well liked by the family and b) fond of rock hard matzoh balls. It was a tremendous amount of work and looking back, expensive to boot. So I don't begrudge my dad at all for replacing the good scotch with cheap stuff when my Aunt Sylvia was in attendance.

Aunt Sylvia was the person I pictured when I heard the word "elegant". She was a good 20 years older than my mother, her sister. She was well-dressed, or so I thought, and spoke as though she was very worldly, and I guess she was. She'd traveled a great deal with her late husband Dennis. I barely knew him because he and my dad had a falling out that lasted over 10 years. They actually lived on the street behind us for a few years before they retired to Florida, but we never spoke. My grandmother would pack her "valise" and walk through our back yard to go stay with them for a few weeks, then I'd see her walking back through our yard when she returned. It was odd, but like most things when you're a kid, it seemed normal at the time. They patched things up before Dennis died, and my Aunt Sylvia became a favorite relative of mine. She was fond of scotch, and if you ever look at my wedding album, she's the octagenerian in the short gold dress with Tina Turner's legs. Cancer took Sylvia from us just after Marcie and I learned we were pregnant with Adam. His middle name honors her memory.

Her brother Herbie, and his wife Marilyn were often with us. Herbie was a loud, often cranky man, but also very funny. They had four children whom we'll get to in a moment. When I was very young, they lived in Cleveland. Not the one in Ohio, nor the one in Georgia. The one that makes a good pitstop for small-bladdered travelers between Chattanooga and Knoxville. Not exactly the Jewish center of the South. Herbie's been gone a few years now. Marilyn lives in town and we see her once a year or so.

Herbie & Marilyn's kids are Stuart, Mark, Ricky, and Susie. At one time all three boys lived in Atlanta and Seders when all were present inevitably devolved into a snickerfest, usually started by Ricky. Somebody would have the lines about "what aileth you oh seas that thou didst flee, you mountains skip like rams, you hills like young lambs..." Well, apparently the thought of skipping hills was too much for Rick to bear. Stuart's wife Mary would try to restore dignity, but even she couldn't. Mary is party to two of my all-time favorite Passover stories. In her first year of marriage, this minister's daughter wanted to impress Stuart with her knowledge of Judaism, so she called to wish him a Happy Pesach. Only she pronounced in "PESS-ach," rhymes with "mess watch". (The more correct way sounds like Pay Sock). It was a valiant effort, and lest you think I'm making fun of Mary, she too is one of my favorite relatives.

Mark was a bachelor for most of those early years, but we eventually were lucky enough to have Keri join the party. She could hang with the boys, and maybe that's why it took my mom and Sylvia a while to warm to her. But they eventually did. Cathy is Rick's wife, and as the years went by their kids Kyle and Emily joined the crowd. You keeping count? They live in Arizona now but Mark and Stuart are still here in Atlanta. Susie and her kids Jennifer and little Ricky were also with us for several Seders.

Erin and Shelley, Stuart and Mary's adorable little girls, now both 20-something, were always a part of my Passover memories. It was through them that I had a belief that little kids liked me. That held up at least until I had kids of my own. Erin was the source of my other favorite Passover story, at least I think it happened on Passover. She was around 5 and was, and remains to this day, the most precocious child I have ever met. Apparently she had been practicing telling people her full name and could not wait to tell her Aunt Sandie (and perhaps her Nunkin Narnie, but my dad wasn't in the room at the time). I think they were in my mom's room, when Erin announced "I'm Erin Pauline Tasman. E-P-T, just like the pregnancy test." Mary was probably mortified, but if I ever want to remember my mom laughing, really laughing, that's the moment I can zoom to in my mind.

Craig was Sylvia's son. He's the oldest of the cousins. There are 11 of us on my mom's side. I'm the baby. Craig is one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet. He sells records, as in vinyl, mostly on Ebay last I heard. Sadly, after my mom died, neither of us has made much effort, make that any effort, to keep in touch.

Steven Tasman is another cousin, of course, who has lived in Atlanta for over 20 years. He and Patti became regulars at these dinners too, and we still run into them here and there around town.

Joel, another of mom's brothers, and Isabelle, made it in a few times for Seder. I think their daughter Lynne was here a time or two, but maybe I'm wrong. What say you, cuz? I know Lynne's brother Brian was never there. Some day somebody will tell me the whole story about that dude. What I know is very little and rather strange. Joel is a great story teller and writer. I remember as a kid being told I was like Joel because I cried a lot. Maybe the interest in writing is another quality we share.

My sister Stacy was there most of this time, along with her husband Randy somewhere along the way. It's funny how the years start to blend together. They live in Wisconsin now with their two kids, Aaron and Hannah. It had been a long time between visits home but Stacy's been here a couple times in the last year or so.

Now you didn't have to be a family member to snag an invite to our dinners, but I'm not sure why you'd want to be there otherwise. I think I subjected Cindy Brams to our Seder once. Sorry about that, Cindy. Stuart Brown was there a time or two, I think. And of course Marcie saw at least a couple of these Sederpalooza's before volunteering for duty. Like any family, we had our over-served elders, snickering cousins, embarrassed spouses, precocious rugrats, amazing stories from the 30's, 40's, 50's, whatever-happened-to-Uncle-Lou, which-Uncle-Lou-your-mother's-cousin-or-my grandfather's-nephew,  wonderful food, chad-gad-ya, and memories.Wonderful memories.

After my illness and my dad's little scare earlier this year, I longed for the familial bond I used to feel on Pesach and the High Holidays, at Bat Mitzvah's and weddings. I promised myself I would step into my mom's shoes (snug as they might be) and we'd host a big Seder this year, so my kids could have those same memories I do. My dad would still do the brisket and the homemade horseradish, perfect for clearing the sinuses of the pollen-affected. Marcie's got the matzo ball soup thing down, so we're good there. We'd have Stuart & Mary, Erin & Colt, Mark & Keri (and their kids Jordan and Jake), Marilyn, Steven and Patty, Craig, my dad and Sharon, Marcie's folks, plus our 5 makes 21. But it didn't happen. Too easy to put it off until I feel better, until it's not the day before Marcie and the littles have to leave at 5:30 for a 3 day field trip.

Next year, as they say.