By Alana Newhouse for Tablet Magazine
When I was growing up, my parents and I would spend the second Passover Seder every year at the home of close friends. It was an intense ritual: thirty to forty people, somehow always seeming to range in age from birth to near-death, with many from differing backgrounds and with varying degrees of Jewish knowledge and experience, each offering to the collective his or her own particular investment: fluency in Hebrew and Aramaic, mastery of various commentaries on the Hagaddah, insight into current events, comic relief. Crumb1
My parents had become dedicated, beloved members of their modern Orthodox community, but neither had been raised in an observant home, and so neither had much to offer the group by way of formal religious knowledge. Until, that is, the year that my father stumbled upon “the karpas thing.”
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