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Is it by your wisdom that the hawk grows pinions, spreads his wings to the south? Does the eagle soar at your command, building his nest high, dwelling in the rock, lodging upon the fastness of a jutting rock? (Job 39:26-28)

Yesterday as I took my morning walk around Shorashim, I was preoccupied with the pressures of the coming day–the grant request due, the lesson to teach, the study tour to prepare. After passing several of my neighbors walking their dogs, bringing in their newspapers, etc., I became conscious that they were all looking up at the sky and smiling. And indeed, there was a majestic sight overhead: the annual migration of storks from Africa to Europe was passing through. Flock after flock of the large, black and white birds made their way up the Hilazon Valley and disappeared over the ridge to the north-east. In the twenty minutes it took me to make my circuit, there was no gap in this air-train. Storks don’t fly in neat formations like geese, but alternately spiral slowly upwards like a plume of smoke, riding thermal currents, and then glide forward. The sight of this plume of birds slowly rising high into the sky, the huge birds becoming specks gleaming in the sun, is a stunning feature of the season around here, and occasionally causes gaper’s block on the highways.

My zoologist son–in–law tells me that songbirds migrate across the Mediterranean – apparently they can fly faster – but large birds like storks have to stay over land. This means that coming up from Africa they pass over Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Turkey enroute to their summer homes (I hope the blizzards in Europe are over by the time they get there this year). In 1993, after the Oslo Accord and the signing of a peace treaty between Israel and Jordan, the tabloids ran front page maps of the “new Middle East,” showing the driving times to various points in the region and in Europe, to which we’d soon be able to drive, along the storks’ route. After years of living on an isolated island reachable only by sea or air, there was excited anticipation of a normalization of our geography. That was then; this is now. Today, 20 years later, it’s still only the storks that can make the trip overland from Africa to Europe.

We now have a new minister of education, from a different party than the last one. Once again, I suppose, there will be a discussion of reprinting the geography books to show the eastern border of Israel in accord with the ideology of the minister’s party. It can be expensive to live in a country that can’t decide where its own borders are. The ongoing debate that has divided us, often bitterly, over the past century, over “What is a Jewish state?” has gotten no closer to resolution as a result of the recent election. Similarly, we still cannot even have a civil discussion of what would seem to be a more basic question: “Where, exactly, is the Jewish state?”

Storks know geography differently from us. They have been making the same trip for millennia, following the air currents along valleys and over mountains, oblivious to the lines we draw on our maps indicating human ownership and jurisdiction – and even to the physical fences and walls (no matter how high) we build to fortify those lines. We, being we, of course know things that storks can’t possibly know about geography. But it seems to me that they probably know things we can’t know; about freedom, for example. I wonder if they’re laughing at us from up there.

Is it by your wisdom that the hawk grows pinions, spreads his wings to the south? Does the eagle soar at your command, building his nest high, dwelling in the rock, lodging upon the fastness of a jutting rock? (Job 39:26-28)

Yesterday as I took my morning walk around Shorashim, I was preoccupied with the pressures of the coming day–the grant request due, the lesson to teach, the study tour to prepare. After passing several of my neighbors walking their dogs, bringing in their newspapers, etc., I became conscious that they were all looking up at the sky and smiling. And indeed, there was a majestic sight overhead: the annual migration of storks from Africa to Europe was passing through. Flock after flock of the large, black and white birds made their way up the Hilazon Valley and disappeared over the ridge to the north-east. In the twenty minutes it took me to make my circuit, there was no gap in this air-train. Storks don’t fly in neat formations like geese, but alternately spiral slowly upwards like a plume of smoke, riding thermal currents, and then glide forward. The sight of this plume of birds slowly rising high into the sky, the huge birds becoming specks gleaming in the sun, is a stunning feature of the season around here, and occasionally causes gaper’s block on the highways.

My zoologist son–in–law tells me that songbirds migrate across the Mediterranean – apparently they can fly faster – but large birds like storks have to stay over land. This means that coming up from Africa they pass over Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Turkey enroute to their summer homes (I hope the blizzards in Europe are over by the time they get there this year). In 1993, after the Oslo Accord and the signing of a peace treaty between Israel and Jordan, the tabloids ran front page maps of the “new Middle East,” showing the driving times to various points in the region and in Europe, to which we’d soon be able to drive, along the storks’ route. After years of living on an isolated island reachable only by sea or air, there was excited anticipation of a normalization of our geography. That was then; this is now. Today, 20 years later, it’s still only the storks that can make the trip overland from Africa to Europe.

We now have a new minister of education, from a different party than the last one. Once again, I suppose, there will be a discussion of reprinting the geography books to show the eastern border of Israel in accord with the ideology of the minister’s party. It can be expensive to live in a country that can’t decide where its own borders are. The ongoing debate that has divided us, often bitterly, over the past century, over “What is a Jewish state?” has gotten no closer to resolution as a result of the recent election. Similarly, we still cannot even have a civil discussion of what would seem to be a more basic question: “Where, exactly, is the Jewish state?”

Storks know geography differently from us. They have been making the same trip for millennia, following the air currents along valleys and over mountains, oblivious to the lines we draw on our maps indicating human ownership and jurisdiction – and even to the physical fences and walls (no matter how high) we build to fortify those lines. We, being we, of course know things that storks can’t possibly know about geography. But it seems to me that they probably know things we can’t know; about freedom, for example. I wonder if they’re laughing at us from up there.

My parents raised my brothers and me to have a strong identity as Reform Jews. We were clear about our Jewish ancestry. We fully embraced our connection to and responsibility toward synagogue life. We appreciated all the rituals we celebrated as a Jewish family. At the same time, though, they taught us to not be afraid of “the other”–those of different races, ethnic backgrounds and, especially, different religions. In fact, our respect and appreciation for the “the other” helped to strengthen our identity as Jews. So when it came time for celebrating Pesach, our seder was a perfect reflection of that philosophy.

My father led the seder and, while he was definitely a “non-believer,” he managed to highlight the important traditions and the need for us to tell the story and remember the Exodus. We did it, however, “Mishkin–style!”

We used the old Chase and Sanborn Haggadah. My father “loved” all the “thees and thous” but his absolute favorite was the verse from Hallel–”Ye mountains, that ye skip like rams; Ye hills, like young sheep?” As kids we laughed, as adults we added our own humorous commentary and, in our own homes today, even though we use totally different Haggadot, my brothers and I find ways to insert that quote somewhere in our own seders.

I now have the copies of those Haggadot. And every year, as I prepare to lead my own family seder, I look back at the “ancient” Haggadah and marvel at how my father did his own bit of “outreach,” always including everyone at the seder–Jew and non-Jew alike–because making the connection for anyone at the table was far more important than the blood line.

The night before the seder he would sit in his favorite chair, his copy of the haggadah in hand, and would assign parts for everyone–scratching out the names from the last year and inserting the new names. Year after year he added the names of the non-Jewish girlfriends my cousins would bring with them, making sure that they would be comfortable with the parts to which they were assigned. No one was to be embarrassed by their lack of knowledge–and all they remember was that “Uncle Al” was so accepting and welcoming. He added his own unique humor to the seder but never watered down the importance of the ritual lest it lose its integrity. He made the Jewish experience one that was welcoming for all. No one–Jew or non-Jew–left feeling like a stranger or an “other.”

A seder in our home wasn’t a seder unless there were a few Jesuit priests present. We were as close to the Jesuits as we were to the rabbi in town. I will never forget the image of Father Jack Fahey–wearing both his priest’s collar and a green yarmulke. But our seder connection with the Jesuits did not stop there. One year our family was invited to lead a seder at Gonzaga Retreat House, for 100 nuns and all of the Jesuits who lived there–and to do it on Maundy Thursday, also known as Holy Thursday, during Easter week. It was the ultimate in sharing of personal religious customs and working to break down the barriers between Jews and Christians. The local paper put us on the front page, with a picture of my father–the man who would fall asleep in Temple–wearing a yarmulke and holding the Chase and Sanborn Haggadah, all while standing in front of a crucifix. And the nuns kept going back into the kitchen for more charoset–which they thought was “Waldorf salad!”

My parents taught us not to be afraid of the “other.” Instead we could celebrate our Jewish identity to the fullest while inviting “others” to participate. We invited guests into our sukkah (OK, it was for a Republican Party Kaffee Klatch!), and shared in our Hanukkah celebration while also playing Santa Claus for our Gentile friends in town. And, of course, we led our famous Maundy Thursday seder–just another of the Mishkin family Jewish traditions!

Dr. Madelyn Mishkin Katz is associate dean at HUC, Jack H. Skirball Campus, Los Angeles, California.

My parents raised my brothers and me to have a strong identity as Reform Jews. We were clear about our Jewish ancestry. We fully embraced our connection to and responsibility toward synagogue life. We appreciated all the rituals we celebrated as a Jewish family. At the same time, though, they taught us to not be afraid of “the other”–those of different races, ethnic backgrounds and, especially, different religions. In fact, our respect and appreciation for the “the other” helped to strengthen our identity as Jews. So when it came time for celebrating Pesach, our seder was a perfect reflection of that philosophy.

My father led the seder and, while he was definitely a “non-believer,” he managed to highlight the important traditions and the need for us to tell the story and remember the Exodus. We did it, however, “Mishkin–style!”

We used the old Chase and Sanborn Haggadah. My father “loved” all the “thees and thous” but his absolute favorite was the verse from Hallel–”Ye mountains, that ye skip like rams; Ye hills, like young sheep?” As kids we laughed, as adults we added our own humorous commentary and, in our own homes today, even though we use totally different Haggadot, my brothers and I find ways to insert that quote somewhere in our own seders.

I now have the copies of those Haggadot. And every year, as I prepare to lead my own family seder, I look back at the “ancient” Haggadah and marvel at how my father did his own bit of “outreach,” always including everyone at the seder–Jew and non-Jew alike–because making the connection for anyone at the table was far more important than the blood line.

The night before the seder he would sit in his favorite chair, his copy of the haggadah in hand, and would assign parts for everyone–scratching out the names from the last year and inserting the new names. Year after year he added the names of the non-Jewish girlfriends my cousins would bring with them, making sure that they would be comfortable with the parts to which they were assigned. No one was to be embarrassed by their lack of knowledge–and all they remember was that “Uncle Al” was so accepting and welcoming. He added his own unique humor to the seder but never watered down the importance of the ritual lest it lose its integrity. He made the Jewish experience one that was welcoming for all. No one–Jew or non-Jew–left feeling like a stranger or an “other.”

A seder in our home wasn’t a seder unless there were a few Jesuit priests present. We were as close to the Jesuits as we were to the rabbi in town. I will never forget the image of Father Jack Fahey–wearing both his priest’s collar and a green yarmulke. But our seder connection with the Jesuits did not stop there. One year our family was invited to lead a seder at Gonzaga Retreat House, for 100 nuns and all of the Jesuits who lived there–and to do it on Maundy Thursday, also known as Holy Thursday, during Easter week. It was the ultimate in sharing of personal religious customs and working to break down the barriers between Jews and Christians. The local paper put us on the front page, with a picture of my father–the man who would fall asleep in Temple–wearing a yarmulke and holding the Chase and Sanborn Haggadah, all while standing in front of a crucifix. And the nuns kept going back into the kitchen for more charoset–which they thought was “Waldorf salad!”

My parents taught us not to be afraid of the “other.” Instead we could celebrate our Jewish identity to the fullest while inviting “others” to participate. We invited guests into our sukkah (OK, it was for a Republican Party Kaffee Klatch!), and shared in our Hanukkah celebration while also playing Santa Claus for our Gentile friends in town. And, of course, we led our famous Maundy Thursday seder–just another of the Mishkin family Jewish traditions!

Dr. Madelyn Mishkin Katz is associate dean at HUC, Jack H. Skirball Campus, Los Angeles, California.

The day after the Passover, that very day, they ate some of the produce of the land: unleavened bread and roasted grain. The manna stopped the day after they ate this food from the land; there was no longer any manna for the Israelites, but that year they ate the produce of Canaan. (Joshua 5:11-12)

The Lord said to Moses, “Speak to the Israelites and say to them: ‘When you enter the land I am going to give you and you reap its harvest, bring to the priest a sheaf of the first grain you harvest…You must not eat any bread, or roasted or new grain, until the very day you bring this offering to your God. This is to be a lasting ordinance for the generations to come, wherever you live. (Leviticus 23:9-11, 14)

Coalition or not, nuclear threat or not, the nation of Israel is currently preoccupied with Pesach cleaning. Last week our newspaper came with a glossy advertising supplement, a thick booklet consisting of a catalogue of all the cleaning compounds and materials produced by a major manufacturer. This is serious business, carried out not just with detergent and cleanser, but with lye and blowtorches and large cauldrons of boiling water. I’m not sure which holiday leads in casualties: Purim (drunkenness, cap guns, costume injuries) or Pesach (cuts, inhalation of fumes, burns, and falls from ladders). This obsession is not limited to the Orthodox, though most of the funny stories about excess relate to them; the instinct to clean out and refresh before Pesach seems to be a general Jewish trait, leading to a kind of national hysteria, even as we laugh at each other and ourselves while doing it.

It turns out that this national cleanup has a legitimate biblical origin. In ancient Israel, Pesach marked the beginning of the grain harvest. This occasion, a time of gratitude and celebration, was observed by the bringing of an offering of the first sheaves to the priest, and a ritual liturgy with additional sacrifices. Until this offering was brought, it was forbidden to eat any of the new crop. Hence, the great cleanup of Pesach, according to this description, meant using up – and getting rid of any residue – of last year’s crop, making way for the new grain and its products which could be consumed from Pesach onward. (In the food service industry this is FIFO – first in, first out). The holiday was an agricultural/seasonal New Year – a reset and restart connecting what we ate to the transition of the seasons and to God’s beneficence in allowing us to bring in a harvest of new grain.

And on a historical level, the description of the first Pesach in the land, in Joshua chapter 5, contains a similar theme: a dietary transition – in this case, from the miraculous, God-given mannah to the bread brought forth from the earth by our own labors. On Pesach the old diet ended (and since we know that mannah had a very short shelf-life, getting rid of the old was not a big deal) and a new one began.

So a great clean-out and a week of matzah remind us that wherever and however we live, we are linked to our ancient agricultural roots in the land. And speaking of roots: our family has discovered, since living in the Galilee, the “roasted grain” referred to in the Bible and made it part of our culinary repertoire: a staple in the local Arab diet is frika, wheat grains that have been toasted and cracked, yielding a kind of burgul with a slightly toasty/smoky flavor. We have to cross the highway to the supermarket in the Arab village to buy it.

The day after the Passover, that very day, they ate some of the produce of the land: unleavened bread and roasted grain. The manna stopped the day after they ate this food from the land; there was no longer any manna for the Israelites, but that year they ate the produce of Canaan. (Joshua 5:11-12)

The Lord said to Moses, “Speak to the Israelites and say to them: ‘When you enter the land I am going to give you and you reap its harvest, bring to the priest a sheaf of the first grain you harvest…You must not eat any bread, or roasted or new grain, until the very day you bring this offering to your God. This is to be a lasting ordinance for the generations to come, wherever you live. (Leviticus 23:9-11, 14)

Coalition or not, nuclear threat or not, the nation of Israel is currently preoccupied with Pesach cleaning. Last week our newspaper came with a glossy advertising supplement, a thick booklet consisting of a catalogue of all the cleaning compounds and materials produced by a major manufacturer. This is serious business, carried out not just with detergent and cleanser, but with lye and blowtorches and large cauldrons of boiling water. I’m not sure which holiday leads in casualties: Purim (drunkenness, cap guns, costume injuries) or Pesach (cuts, inhalation of fumes, burns, and falls from ladders). This obsession is not limited to the Orthodox, though most of the funny stories about excess relate to them; the instinct to clean out and refresh before Pesach seems to be a general Jewish trait, leading to a kind of national hysteria, even as we laugh at each other and ourselves while doing it.

It turns out that this national cleanup has a legitimate biblical origin. In ancient Israel, Pesach marked the beginning of the grain harvest. This occasion, a time of gratitude and celebration, was observed by the bringing of an offering of the first sheaves to the priest, and a ritual liturgy with additional sacrifices. Until this offering was brought, it was forbidden to eat any of the new crop. Hence, the great cleanup of Pesach, according to this description, meant using up – and getting rid of any residue – of last year’s crop, making way for the new grain and its products which could be consumed from Pesach onward. (In the food service industry this is FIFO – first in, first out). The holiday was an agricultural/seasonal New Year – a reset and restart connecting what we ate to the transition of the seasons and to God’s beneficence in allowing us to bring in a harvest of new grain.

And on a historical level, the description of the first Pesach in the land, in Joshua chapter 5, contains a similar theme: a dietary transition – in this case, from the miraculous, God-given mannah to the bread brought forth from the earth by our own labors. On Pesach the old diet ended (and since we know that mannah had a very short shelf-life, getting rid of the old was not a big deal) and a new one began.

So a great clean-out and a week of matzah remind us that wherever and however we live, we are linked to our ancient agricultural roots in the land. And speaking of roots: our family has discovered, since living in the Galilee, the “roasted grain” referred to in the Bible and made it part of our culinary repertoire: a staple in the local Arab diet is frika, wheat grains that have been toasted and cracked, yielding a kind of burgul with a slightly toasty/smoky flavor. We have to cross the highway to the supermarket in the Arab village to buy it.

More than 68 percent of Jewish Americans over the age of 18, according to a survey conducted by the Public Religion Research Institute in 2012, celebrate a Passover seder. The percentage is a little lower for Jews in the 18–39 age bracket, but I have to hope that that is partially due to school schedules (having seders on Monday and Tuesday night this year can’t help the numbers). The statistics are similar for unaffiliated Jews. What is the draw? Religious dictate aside, I suggest it has more to do with community, memory, and “ordering” our life’s priorities, if only for a small window of time.

Each year I look forward to the family and friends who gather at my seder and form a community of souls who care about each other and the values that promote tikkun olam, repair of the world. But I also look forward to the unseen attendees at my table-my memories. These memories are some of my favorite guests. Setting the table with my mother’s silver and remembering the seders she made when she was alive, using the Kiddush cup from my wedding that has graced my table for almost 43 years, and the wine–soaked crayon matzah covers my children made decades ago when they were in preschool, are all memories that bring me contentment.

When I travel around the country talking about the stories and history surrounding our culinary heritage, I often notice some teary-eyed participants in the audience, especially after I talk about Passover. I know better than to assume my talk has bored them to tears! It is the memories that are evoked in their hearts that elicit this response. Memories of the recipes–the smell of the chicken soup wafting through the house at grandma’s-and the seders that dad conducted–always trying to include everyone with a speaking part and never stigmatizing the same person with the role of the wicked son (unless it was the family joke to call upon the same person every year!)–and memories of the people with whom they shared the seder in their youth. These thoughts hold an important place in their minds and hearts. And these memories draw us together in an unseen way to fulfill our duties to celebrate Passover and our redemption from slavery.

Seder means “order,” and it can refer to more than the order of the rituals in the Haggadah. Setting your table to facilitate the flow of the seder can create order out of the chaos of 20-40 people trying to dip parsley in salt water! I often joke that more wine is spilled on tablecloths knocking down wine glasses while passing the salt water or charoset, than by inebriated participants accidently tipping their glasses. Some people shorten their seders and leave out parts of the Haggadah (I think Rabbi Tarfon often is the first to go!) so that the service won’t be too long. That is sad because the stories and singing that are part of the ceremony create lasting memories.

Instead of shortening the content, how about eliminating all of the passing and sharing of the Passover symbols? To do this, I set my table with a plate and bowl on each dinner plate, pushed to center left. The bowl contains salt water and the hard–boiled egg. Let older children pour the water into the bowls from a pitcher or glass measuring cup (don’t worry water doesn’t stain), and let younger children go to each bowl with a salt shaker and shake salt three times into the water. These activities involve the children, get them out of the kitchen, and even teach math; counting to three at 24 place settings is a great learning tool! If the eggs don’t look smooth and beautiful or if you want better flavored eggs (like Sephardi egg soup), then I suggest you use an egg slicer. Go to each place setting and slice the egg before it is added to the salt water. See, if you have three children in the family you have already involved them in the process, kept them away from the busy kitchen, and created memories for them.

Although I place extra bowls of charoset on the table, each place setting – on the plate next to the bowl – gets its own dollop of charoset, piece of bitter herb, and a sprig of whatever green I am using (the current trend is fashionable arugula, but I still love parsley – again, memory). These items are readily available so that NOTHING needs to be passed around the table and I have eliminated at least 20 minutes from the seder without leaving out any Haggadah ritual. I suspect, long after I am gone, that my children will set the table the same way because of memory and not necessarily for efficiency.

More than 20 years ago, I started a family tradition that is doable both in your home and in your synagogue, if you have a community seder. Every year I distribute an indelible marker to my guests and have them sign their names and the year on one designated tablecloth. I later embroider the signatures (use a fine line pen or your task will be enormous!). The names evoke memories in me. Oma Grande’s name is here – and her potato kugel, too – even if she is no longer with us. I look at Leslie’s signature when she was 8, Tanya’s signature the first time she attended our seder, and the next generation with their new spouses’ signatures added as well. These are memories of my personal community.

Imagine being unaffiliated with a religious institution, and seeking out a seder to attend. A young college student – a single worker transferred to a new city – an elderly person with no family nearby–they may come to the seder and see that their name will be embroidered on one of the tablecloths. A sense of connection is established, and maybe, just maybe, that person will feel more welcomed and become an active part of the synagogue. Who knows?

When we were children, many of us were relegated to the “children’s table,” the card table at the end of the dining room. Oh, how we couldn’t wait until we were old enough to be seated at the “big” table. Little did we realize that when we got there, those people who had an indelible affect on our lives would probably not be sitting with us. Our memories of them, and maybe their signatures, would be with us at the table.

With every song we sing, every morsel of food we consume from our family recipes, and every discussion we initiate around the seder table, we generate new memories. While we recite the story about our liberation in the past, we are creating traditions and engaging the next group of children at the card table to carry on for generations to come.

Eat in good health!

Tina D. Wasserman isa member of Temple Emanu-El in Dallas. Her Passover recipes for Mina de Maza (Matzah Pie) and Tri-colored Gefilte Loaf are included in her cookbook, Entrée to Judaism (URJ Press).

More than 68 percent of Jewish Americans over the age of 18, according to a survey conducted by the Public Religion Research Institute in 2012, celebrate a Passover seder. The percentage is a little lower for Jews in the 18–39 age bracket, but I have to hope that that is partially due to school schedules (having seders on Monday and Tuesday night this year can’t help the numbers). The statistics are similar for unaffiliated Jews. What is the draw? Religious dictate aside, I suggest it has more to do with community, memory, and “ordering” our life’s priorities, if only for a small window of time.

Each year I look forward to the family and friends who gather at my seder and form a community of souls who care about each other and the values that promote tikkun olam, repair of the world. But I also look forward to the unseen attendees at my table-my memories. These memories are some of my favorite guests. Setting the table with my mother’s silver and remembering the seders she made when she was alive, using the Kiddush cup from my wedding that has graced my table for almost 43 years, and the wine–soaked crayon matzah covers my children made decades ago when they were in preschool, are all memories that bring me contentment.

When I travel around the country talking about the stories and history surrounding our culinary heritage, I often notice some teary-eyed participants in the audience, especially after I talk about Passover. I know better than to assume my talk has bored them to tears! It is the memories that are evoked in their hearts that elicit this response. Memories of the recipes–the smell of the chicken soup wafting through the house at grandma’s-and the seders that dad conducted–always trying to include everyone with a speaking part and never stigmatizing the same person with the role of the wicked son (unless it was the family joke to call upon the same person every year!)–and memories of the people with whom they shared the seder in their youth. These thoughts hold an important place in their minds and hearts. And these memories draw us together in an unseen way to fulfill our duties to celebrate Passover and our redemption from slavery.

Seder means “order,” and it can refer to more than the order of the rituals in the Haggadah. Setting your table to facilitate the flow of the seder can create order out of the chaos of 20-40 people trying to dip parsley in salt water! I often joke that more wine is spilled on tablecloths knocking down wine glasses while passing the salt water or charoset, than by inebriated participants accidently tipping their glasses. Some people shorten their seders and leave out parts of the Haggadah (I think Rabbi Tarfon often is the first to go!) so that the service won’t be too long. That is sad because the stories and singing that are part of the ceremony create lasting memories.

Instead of shortening the content, how about eliminating all of the passing and sharing of the Passover symbols? To do this, I set my table with a plate and bowl on each dinner plate, pushed to center left. The bowl contains salt water and the hard–boiled egg. Let older children pour the water into the bowls from a pitcher or glass measuring cup (don’t worry water doesn’t stain), and let younger children go to each bowl with a salt shaker and shake salt three times into the water. These activities involve the children, get them out of the kitchen, and even teach math; counting to three at 24 place settings is a great learning tool! If the eggs don’t look smooth and beautiful or if you want better flavored eggs (like Sephardi egg soup), then I suggest you use an egg slicer. Go to each place setting and slice the egg before it is added to the salt water. See, if you have three children in the family you have already involved them in the process, kept them away from the busy kitchen, and created memories for them.

Although I place extra bowls of charoset on the table, each place setting – on the plate next to the bowl – gets its own dollop of charoset, piece of bitter herb, and a sprig of whatever green I am using (the current trend is fashionable arugula, but I still love parsley – again, memory). These items are readily available so that NOTHING needs to be passed around the table and I have eliminated at least 20 minutes from the seder without leaving out any Haggadah ritual. I suspect, long after I am gone, that my children will set the table the same way because of memory and not necessarily for efficiency.

More than 20 years ago, I started a family tradition that is doable both in your home and in your synagogue, if you have a community seder. Every year I distribute an indelible marker to my guests and have them sign their names and the year on one designated tablecloth. I later embroider the signatures (use a fine line pen or your task will be enormous!). The names evoke memories in me. Oma Grande’s name is here – and her potato kugel, too – even if she is no longer with us. I look at Leslie’s signature when she was 8, Tanya’s signature the first time she attended our seder, and the next generation with their new spouses’ signatures added as well. These are memories of my personal community.

Imagine being unaffiliated with a religious institution, and seeking out a seder to attend. A young college student – a single worker transferred to a new city – an elderly person with no family nearby–they may come to the seder and see that their name will be embroidered on one of the tablecloths. A sense of connection is established, and maybe, just maybe, that person will feel more welcomed and become an active part of the synagogue. Who knows?

When we were children, many of us were relegated to the “children’s table,” the card table at the end of the dining room. Oh, how we couldn’t wait until we were old enough to be seated at the “big” table. Little did we realize that when we got there, those people who had an indelible affect on our lives would probably not be sitting with us. Our memories of them, and maybe their signatures, would be with us at the table.

With every song we sing, every morsel of food we consume from our family recipes, and every discussion we initiate around the seder table, we generate new memories. While we recite the story about our liberation in the past, we are creating traditions and engaging the next group of children at the card table to carry on for generations to come.

Eat in good health!

Tina D. Wasserman isa member of Temple Emanu-El in Dallas. Her Passover recipes for Mina de Maza (Matzah Pie) and Tri-colored Gefilte Loaf are included in her cookbook, Entrée to Judaism (URJ Press).