SC - Powder Douce

[Philip & Susan Troy]

This story comes from my Jewish List.  It is about food, although oop.  Now, 
the preparations for the holiday are the same as in the MA, so there is the 
food connection.  but I am sending you this story because it is so charming.
Phillipa
 
 This story is included in obligatory readings for children in Israel and is
 constructed from memory. I believe the author was our ex-President Mr.
 Yitzchak Navon. The story I am telling as it was in first person, however it
 didn't happen to me of course.
 Sorry for the un-artistic touch - I am after all not Edelina or Marijke.
 Things in [] are my explanations about terms and phrases.
 
 MY PASSOVER SIN
 
 My grandmother was concentrating again. She pushed her scarf to the top of
 her brow, and she stared again at the rice. And then, in one decisive
 movement, she swept another fistful of rice into the bowl at her knees.
 She pushed with her finger her spectacles up on her nose, and took another
 fist from the sac of rise standing beside her.
 "Mother", said my mother, "Please, let me sort out the rice this year. You
 really do need a new pair of spectacles.".
 My grandmother just pursed her lips and didn't answer.
 "Mother", continued my mother, "Think about what will happen if a grain of
 wheat will be found in the rice. We will have to Lehageel [to boil dishes to
 make the Kosher for Passover] all the Passover dishes again".
 This time my grandmother answered in one short sentence "Chana, just check
 again your chicken to see that no grain of wheat remains in their livers".
 And so we went on. Me and my grandmother sifting the whole Passover supply
 of rice and legumes while my mother checking the chicken.
 
 My father came in, and from the open door smells of coal and fire entered.
 Every street corner in Mandated [pre-1948] Jerusalem was populated by a coal
 fire. On the fire was a big barrel, filled with boiling water.
 The men of the neighborhood took the dishes to the barrels and there they
 were dipped inside deftly by the guy in charge.
 
 As a kid, I loved to stand beside my father and see how our dishes are
 dipped into the boiling water. As they were lifted out, one by one, I felt
 cleaned and pure myself, ready for the Passover.
 Here are the blue dishes, used for our breakfasts. Here are the white
 porcelains dishes with the tiny roses, brought by my grandmother from her
 mother's house in a faraway country many years ago. We used them only for
 special occasions like tomorrow night, at the Passover evening meal called
 the Seder.
 
 But not any more standing around for me. This year, as Passover drew close,
 my grandmother said to me "Edna, you are old enough to help us with the
 Passover preparations. After all, this summer you are going to be already
 eight. Soon your father will have to start to look for a Shiduch for you.
 What will your future mother in law think if you don't know how to prepare
 for the Passover?".
 And so we sat this morning at the kitchen table, looking for wheat grains
 that could make our whole food un-Kosher.
 My grandmother kept repeating how important it is to remove all grains from
 our home. After two weeks of cleaning every corner of the house the story
 began to sound so familiar.
 In the middle of Passover, when she was a child, a grain of wheat was found
 in the linen cupboard of their neighbors' home. All the dishes had to be
 boiled again. Their precious food supply had to be burned at the middle of
 Passover. Her neighbor was ashamed to show her face at the market place for
 months and her daughters had to do the shopping for her. And all, finished
 my grandmother with a note of triumph in her voice, because she didn't know
 how to clean her house and sift her food.
 
 On the next evening, all was finished. As the men returned from the
 synagogue, everyone sat down quickly to the Seder. My father started with
 the traditional hand washing and from there on the usual ritual of the
 Hagaddah continued.
 With my mind's eye, I wondered along in the desert with the Sons of Israel.
 Images of babies leaving Egypt on their mothers' back blended with watching
 with fascination my father dipping his finger in the wine glass and dropping
 dark red drops, like red blood, in a bowl my grandmother put at his side -
 Dam, Tzfardea, Kinim [blood, frog, lice - the first three strikes against
 the Egyptians].
 I was so immersed with my images that I hardly noticed that already my
 father was blessing the wine. Soon it would be time for the meal my
 grandmother, my mother and my aunts cooked all day long.
 
 After the fish and the soup, came the main course - my grandmother's pride -
 her stuffed chicken with rice and raisins.
 "Edna", my mother's voice broke into my dreams, "would you like a white part
 of a red part of the chicken?". I chose a browned thigh, heaped with
 filling, the raisins smiling at me like tiny golden stars from the filling.
 "This chicken", said my grandmother proudly, "I made myself. I checked and
 double checked and we shall all have a very Kosher Passover this year."
 Everyone settled down to eat, and I decided to eat first the chicken and
 leave the fragrant filling for the last.
 With my fork, I pushed the filling off the chicken.
 Sitting quietly, staring at me, a big grain of wheat. Instinctively, I
 heaped the filling back on the grain and just sat for a minute frozen.
 
 Images of my grandmother's stories flooded my mind. Soon the whole meal will
 be stopped. All the food will be burned at the end of the next day since no
 fire can be lighted on the holiday. All the dishes will need to be boiled
 again and the house will be cleaned again.
 But mostly, my grandmother's face swam at me, full with sorrow. I could hear
 my mother's voice "Mother, you don't see as well as you used to, let me do
 the sifting for you. You need a new pair of spectacles." I could see her
 anguish, her shame.
 I heard her voice telling me "She couldn't go to the market place for
 months, she was so ashamed".
 And then I thought - the grain was found in the linen cupboard. Here, in the
 middle of the Seder it is in the dish.
 
 My father, sitting across the table from me, looked up at me and said to the
 table at large "This year it is your best chicken ever, Mother.".
 My grandmother, beaming, said "Oh, it is nothing really. You just need to be
 very careful to clean the rice and the chicken. But Edna, why are you not
 eating?".
 With determination, I pushed my fork to the direction of the grain and
 started to eat.
 It was not until bare bones were left in my plate that I felt the sin.
 I, Edna, granddaughter of a Rabbi, have eaten Chametz at the Seder.
 
 I don't remember much of the rest of the meal. We must have had the
 macaroons my Aunt Lisa was so proud of making. We must have eaten the fruit
 dipped in wine that my mother made only this morning. We must have looked
 for the hidden piece of Matzo at the end of the meal.
 I don't even remember the rest of the holiday.
 
 But until now, when I am a grandmother myself, I still remember the Passover
 I put the Sin on me, to save the rest of the family's honor and holiday.
 
 
 
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