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Day One: Monday
Well, here we go again. Passover: the worst eight days of a young Jewish person’s life, not counting the week after my bris. That must have been hella painful. I’m sure glad that’s a memory even therapy can’t unearth.
Maybe it won’t be so bad this year. I have willpower. Think of all the money I’m going to save on bagels, pizza, and, well, eating anything that isn’t matzoh. Plus, since I won’t eat any gluten, I’ll be so skinny by the end of this–Atkins be damned!
Time for the first seder, wish me luck!
Day Two: Tuesday
Oy. I hate this holiday already. You’d think that a dinner where it’s mandatory to consume four cups of wine would be fun. But no, it takes three hours to get through the story of Passover before we even get to the soup course, and I’m pretty sure if my aunts and cousins pull up that “Let It Go” a cappella Passover parody on their iPhones one more time, I will be out of here faster than Moses left Egypt. Also, my bubbe yelled at me for playing Fratty Bird on my phone in the middle of the Four Questions.
“Why is this night different from all other nights?” Because it’s the most fucking boring holiday of the year. And we have to do it again tomorrow night? Kill me.
Day Three: Wednesday
Seder numero dos is a complete and utter disaster.
I left all the Passover food my parents packed up for me at my grandmother’s house and all the snacks in my desk were completely not kosher for Passover, so all I ate that day was the delicious but not filling combination of matzoh with butter and salt. (Note to self: pick up some sauce and cheese for matzoh pizza.) By the time we get through the wine and all the prayers and such at seder, I’m completely gone.
I give a toast where the theme is “If the Hebrews had waited a little longer to leave Egypt, we wouldn’t have to eat this matzoh crap,” throw up on my cousin Moishe, then fall asleep in the middle of dinner.
I’m not sure if Jewish people can be excommunicated, but my bubbe is certainly going to do her best to disown me.
Day Four: Thursday
I don’t think you realize how many delicious things have yeast in them. Pizza. Hot dog buns. Burgers. Pasta. Cronuts. Those little edible shot glasses from that fancy bakery in New York. Honey Nut Cheerios. Girl Scout cookies. WAFFLES! DELICIOUS WAFFLES! WHAT KIND OF GOD WOULDN’T ALLOW YOU TO EAT WAFFLES FOR A WEEK?
Man, I’ve got to keep it together. I’m starting to lose my mind. Either way, I don’t feel thinner whatsoever. I’m bloated and haven’t gone to the bathroom in four days. I guess Moses didn’t really take fiber into account when he led the escape from Egypt. Dude must have had the constitution of an ox.
Day Five: Friday
The office happy hour just isn’t the same on Passover.
Drinking liquor while everyone else is having beer seems fun at first, but you get drunk a LOT faster, especially since, you know, all drunk foods are carb-related.
Then somebody has the bright idea to challenge Steinberg in accounting and me to vodka pong, which I foolishly accept. Four games later, I spend the next three hours on the toilet with my head in a garbage bucket.
On a positive note, that’s the first shit I’ve taken in five days. It wasn’t pretty, but if it didn’t happen, I could have exploded.
Day Six: Saturday
Apparently I drunkenly wrote a haiku to pizza last night:
Pizza is delish,
I miss it so very much,
Need it in my mouth.
It’s actually not that bad. The temptation was strong today. I was home alone and looked into my cabinets for some snacks, and I saw the most beautiful box of pancake batter from Trader Joe’s. It called out to me, “Make a giant stack of flapjacks. No one will ever know. It will be our dirty little secret.” Then it winked at me. I got freaked out, slammed the cabinet door and locked myself in my room.
The hallucinations are getting worse.
Day Seven: Sunday
The madness has set in. I’m absolutely losing my mind. I spent the last six hours watching a “Barefoot Contessa” marathon on Food Network because she was making shrimp scampi and I was too hypnotized by carbs to change the channel.
I’m bloated, sick to my stomach, and I keep having dreams about cheesy breadsticks from Domino’s. I spooned with a box of macaroni and cheese last night in bed. I even did a taste test to see what tasted better: matzoh, or the cardboard box that matzoh comes in. Matzoh won, but barely.
As I write this, I’m sobbing into a matzoh pizza I made in my toaster oven. When will this madness end?
Day Eight: Monday
Well, it’s over. I survived.
As soon as the sun went down, I ordered a whole pizza, ate the entire thing in 10 minutes, and am currently writing you from the toilet, where I’ve been sitting for the last four hours. I guess the fiber from the pizza was like sticking a knife in a ketchup bottle when you can’t get the ketchup out–once you pop, you just can’t stop.
As I throw out the remainder of the Matzoh I have left over (maybe I should save it, it’s not like it’s going to go bad) I think back on the horror of the last eight days. I looked into the brink of oblivion, slowly sank into a pit of madness, and lived to tell my story.
Of course, I’ll have to do it all over again next year, but that’s the future’s problem. For now, I think I’m going to order another pizza.
‘Til next year, Pesach!
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Only a fellow MOT would understand
Matzoh pizza is the shit (if you don’t compare it to real pizza, or any real foods with bread in them).
Pasta is flour and eggs essentially. Don’t lie to the gentiles.
Wow, this is my holiday perfectly described.