Honey and Me: Chapters 18–22

Then I hold my breath, pick up an egg, crack it against the plastic-covered counter, and gingerly start peeling.

Passover is a holiday people usually spend with grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts—guests galore at the seders.

Above the roar of the stove fan, which is vainly trying to suck out the fumes of the fish, they are singing rounds of “Ma Tovu”—“What Is Good?”—which makes me smile to myself in fondness.

Miriam lolls against the doorjamb and licks her spoon, a smug look on her face.

Miriam lolls against the doorjamb and licks her spoon, a smug look on her face.

I usually jump in whenever there is something I have learned in school about the part of the Haggadah we are up to, but like my mom and Aunty Steph, who both have brought copious handwritten notes and commentaries on the text but have so far not said a single dvar Torah, I don’t feel like contributing tonight.

“Go on, Maxie-pie,” my mom coaxes.

There is a crash, and then the sound of hundreds of glass shards scattering across the tile floor, mimicking the sound of the rain pelting outside last night.

“Okay, show’s over. Everybody out. I need to clean up,” my mother says tightly.
“Geez, Lori, do you always have to be such a martyr?” Aunty Steph says, and points to my mom’s bare feet and then to her own rubber slides. “Let me clean up.”

As I step forward to press the buttons for the code, I see my warped reflection in the keypad again. I pause, my finger in the air. I know the image is distorted—widened and wobbly—like a fun-house mirror.

“Because you shouldn’t need to please me or anyone else in order to feel proud of yourself! If all you care about are people validating you all the time, you’ll never have the confidence to really make something of yourself.”

I’m realizing that I do resent how certain things turned out—or didn’t turn out.

My dad puts on his kittel, his cheeks ruddy tonight, while I haul Aginéni up and lead her to her seat at our dining room table, right next to mine.

“She’s got a great idea, Lori.”
“That she came up with herself,” adds Aginéni vehemently.

My mother’s face blanches—I guess Aginéni is still kind of scary if you don’t know her like I do.

We have a big tent in our backyard, and everyone walks around oohing and aahing at the blue and yellow colors my mom and I chose for the decor and exclaiming over the bite-sized delicacies passed around by waiters in bow ties.

I found this paper in our recycling bin last week after Milla cleaned out her schoolbag, and I felt compelled to rescue it.

I don’t know what the genesis or the context of it was besides something for Judaic Studies, but if you’ll indulge me, I have Milla’s permission to share it.

But I feel a warmth pervading everything, a brightness and light.

Milla: You are thoughtful, observant of details other people wouldn’t notice or think about, and introspective—which is a word you taught me.

The Sages say that naming a baby is a statement of her character, her specialness, and her path in life, and it’s a most profound spiritual moment.

The Midrash teaches us that there is one small area in which we are granted a glimpse of Divine wisdom. It comes to parents when they think hard to find the right name for their children.

Shavuot commemorates the acceptance of the Torah by the Jewish people, and the Book of Ruth describes the acceptance of the Torah by a single person, Ruth.

“As I become bat mitzvah now, I am no longer a child: The laws of the Torah are on my own shoulders, not my parents anymore. As I forge my identity in my journey toward being an adult, I too will make decisions about my beliefs and my commitment to my Judaism. And about who I am as a person.”

I was too dumbfounded to do more than run over to their bookshelf, pull down one of the many Most Likely To...books, and stare at the front cover in wonder.

“Have you ever noticed how Raphi dedicated all these books?” she asked me, pointing to the words.

We gorge on cookies, gummy bears, and chips, and then play a round of Go Fish, which Honey creams me and Max at.

It already has a big new desk against the wall and a new bedspread and pillows for the trundle bed to make it look more like a couch when no one’s sleeping in it.

When I spoke with Mr. Sandler before I had originally agreed to take his place back in December, he mentioned keeping an eye out for you as a kindred English spirit and he was right. Your comments were always on target and thought-provoking and raised the level of our discussions.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” I grant with pretend- grudging generosity.