So, Pesach is here once again. I survived two family seders. Actually, we all did. Any family event that does not result in homicide is a success in my book (yes, of course I am joking). My mother made brisket and matzah farfel. We read from these very old Hagaddahs that contain a very literal translation from Hebrew, presented in archaic English. According to this translation, instead of everything within us Praising G-d, our bones and kidneys are chanting to Him. This might have explained why I've been feeling a bit sore this week.
And there was the story of the Four Sons. I find that story somewhat annoying. Four boys, all perfect stereotypes. And where was their mother? I think someone should write another story of what ultimately happens to the Four Sons later in their lives. I've always had a theory that the One Who Wits Not to Ask is actually autistic or something. The Simple One probably has some sort of learning disability, the Wise Son ends up a Rabbi (of course), and the Wicked One ends up some capitalist giant, head of a major corporation exploiting sweatshop workers in the Third World.
I'm craving cinnamon buns and a host of other foods I was sick of before the holiday began. Otherwise, life goes on as usual.
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