Staying Home For Pesach

By Kayla Kuchleffel

So it’s three weeks till Pesach.

“Calm down,” I said to myself. Every year you manage - why should this year be different? I mean, so what if this year I’m working part-time and my cleaning lady went back to Poland for a visit? Is this any reason to panic? You bet it is! Small beads of sweat began appearing on my forehead as my heart began thumping so loudly, I felt like the percussion section of an orchestra.

“Relax,” I repeated to myself. If you methodically write everything that has to be done, things will start to fall into place.” So I grabbed a pencil and started writing. Suddenly, something very big immediately fell into place. It was me, collapsing into my easy chair! The more I wrote, the more depressed I got.

Thankfully, the phone rang. It was my girlfriend Zlaty. I immediately began to unburden myself on her, anxious to hear how she was going to manage with her six kids and her in-laws (coming as usual) for Yom Tov. You know, misery loves company. Then she said a word that made me feel faint.
“You’re doing what?” I stammered.

Oh, we’re going to Miami for Pesach,” she repeated. “Itche decided it’s the best thing.”

My skin began to get itchy! I was shocked!

I quickly got off the phone and did some heavy thinking. How could anybody even think about going away for Pesach? The hassle of getting airline tickets, hotel reservations, packing and unpacking, not to mention the possibility of lost luggage, flight delays, bad weather, terrible food, slow waiters, and the nightmare of someone wearing the same outfit as me!

I could just see myself shmaltzing in the hot Florida sun, running out of stockings, a shlemiel waiter spilling soup all over my best outfit, my air conditioner not working and having to change outfits for each meal. At home I could wear the same robe for eight days!

“This is not for me,” I muttered.

Nostalgically I thought of how I loved cleaning the house thoroughly, finding things I’d been looking for all year - the other blue sock, a library book (six months overdue), five dollars in loose change, a half-eaten bagel, a melted chocolate bar under the radiator, a piece of gum stuck to the carpet.
Fondly, I recalled the annual rites I’ve come to adore (in order of preference).

The waiting in line at the store to pay for the new blech, industrial sized silver foil, new toothbrushes and the countless overflowing bags of groceries,

The shlepping up of box after box of Pesach dishes and pots (each weighing a ton), that need to be unpacked, washed and stacked,

The lining of cabinets, taping of doors,

The shvitzing over the hot stove, while making one hundred bletlach for lukshen,

The baking of twelve cakes (ten of which will flop auf tzi lihuchis),

The scraping of my knuckles while grating marror,

The staying up till 2:00 a.m. trying to get the bubbles out of the contact paper,

The screaming at the kids to eat only in the kitchen,

The polishing of silver,

The cleaning of the oven,

The scrubbing and lining of the refrigerator,

The going through of every pocket and cuff in the house,

And finally, with band-aids on every finger and aches and pains in every muscle and bone, doing it all over again in reverse, when Pesach is over.

“How can you compare this with going away for Pesach?” I shouted to myself.

And not knowing what to answer, I tore up my list and quickly called a travel agent.

Miami, here I come!