From what I can gather, my seder and Jill’s had at least one thing in common: At both of them, the two of us were in the minority.
This was to be expected for the shiksa, but not so much for this under-practicing Jew. Elijah didn’t show at mine, but he was possibly the only one who turned down the invitation.
My aunt was her usual self: a lovely and spectacularly all-inclusive host. She found places at the table for hordes of thirsty med students and hungry high-schoolers (friends, mostly non-Jewish, of my oldest and youngest cousins, respectively), asking only that additional merrymakers come with chair and plate in hand, as both were in remarkably short supply.
Rest assured, there was no such problem with the food. Or with the wine.
The matzo-ball soup was just as it should be. Mom’s haroset (a modified version of this one) was perfect. The horseradish was spicy, the tsimmes were sweet-and-savory goodness, and the turkey (too many people for chicken) was possibly Aunt Jill’s best ever, and that bar is set pretty darn high.
Please excuse the lack of quality photos. I was busy eating. And drinking.
Elijah’s cup didn’t go to waste.