The Story of Passover: Mishpucha (family)

This one is going to have to flirt with the journal side of blogging so that I can record our trip and shout out to our family members. If you did not sign up for the Mommy Blog Ramblings, you may want to skip it. Regarding ramblings, I promise that this will be the last time you will read rambling or any of the following blog terms: rants, raves, musings, reflections or anything that is supposedly random. I can’t guarantee that I won’t refer to diatribes, hyperboles or blasphemes, however, unless they become overused blog terms down the road.

On to our continuing story of Passover. A bit of relevant background about the exile of my own little family from the greater, extended family of Chicago.

My mother’s side. There are few remaining members of my mother’s family. Her family has been fractured beyond repair for as long as anyone remembers. Squabbles over the family business and peculiar personalities divided and conquered. I have vague, snapshot memories of certain great aunts and uncles, but most of my relatives on her side were lost to me before I was old enough to register names or faces.

My father’s side. Large and tight-and I don’t mean overweight or frugal. They are actually a very handsome and generous lot. By large, I mean great in numbers, and by tight I mean close. Most people have extended families, but few are as connected as this particular crew. I’m related to approximately 1/3 of the Jewish population in Chicago. That’s not really true, but it feels that way whenever I’m at a family function.

Family history. When we were young children, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided to completely sever ties with my father’s family. To this day, no one knows why. And because my parents do not speak to a single relative, we’ll never know why. Every birthday, holiday, graduation and recital was an event reserved solely for my parents, my siblings and me. Our grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles lived in spitting distance from us throughout the suburbs of Chicago, yet we never saw a single one of them. While we were holding our own, private seder, the extended family gathered to celebrate Passover together. 40, 60 sometimes 80 people breaking matzah together wondering how and why my parents had denied us our own family.

And so it was until my sister, Rachel, decided enough was enough. She wanted her children to know the family she never knew. She managed to contact my aunt, my father’s sister, and they began to rebuild the bridge. When I moved to the UK, I said good-bye to my sister and brother, but when we moved back to the U.S., I was reunited with hundreds. We were a part of something now, and we had no intention of letting go. Passover in Chicago would be our new tradition, and our children would know their family.

Sadly, none of us Goldsteins were able to make it to Chicago this year. My brother, the math teacher, was a chaperone for the high school trip to Japan. My sister’s family and mine could not swing the trip-casualties of the economy. We were disappointed that we would miss out on family time and that our kids would miss out, too. Gabriella was particularly disappointed to miss the annual gefilte fish making. Each year, the women of the family gather and make hundreds of gefilte fish-enough for everyone’s first and second night seders. It’s quite a scene, and the gefilte fish is fantastic.


The upside was that my sister and I were able to spend Passover together in Boston and pass on to our children some of the Goldstein traditions - silliness and laughter at inappropriate moments throughout the seder. My mother is a master of inappropriate behaviour, and Rachel and I have inherited the same inappropriateness. We do our best to use our powers for good over evil – comedy over cruelty, but we haven’t completely suppressed our mother’s madness that lies beneath. It’s a journey.

This year’s seder was small but special in its own way. Rachel and I revisited our childhood, and our children took our places at the table. Joshua, the older nephew, is learning to read Hebrew. Evan, his younger brother, read the translation of the 4 questions. Asher was able to sing the first question after learning the song at pre-school. Levi was a proud brother and cousin and occasional heckler. They might not have been able or so willing to shine as brightly at the larger Seder. Big fish, small pond.

With that, I bring you Scenes of Seder. Appreciate please.

Asher sings the first question


Joshua singing the Hebrew (Levi causing trouble in the background and Asher admiring his cousin)


Translation by Evan


And for those of you who were so deeply concerned about the washing machine that broke down Erev Road Trip (the night before our trip), I am happy to report that the washing machine is now fixed. Lesson learned. IF you have a front-loading machine AND small children with small feet, place small socks in mesh lingerie bag before washing as small socks are prone to plug up drain pump. It happened to us just as it had happened to our plumber and father of four. Which reminds me that I need to go do another load – or two – or seven.