With 2 Passover Seders, it helps to have 2 working wrists

     Two days after Thanksgiving, my wife broke her wrist in two places. Slipping on ice in the parking lot of Sunset Foods. And no, she didn't sue. Not yet anyway.
     For a few months, she couldn't twist the cap off a jar. She's a little better now, though the injury has been slow to heal. It still hurts, sometimes a lot. I try to help as best I can. Cooking, for instance, has become a two-person job. She instructs, I comply.
     Which matters, since Passover is bearing down on us: April 1, for you fans of irony. A Seder is a long, complicated feast, served to lots of guests. Seders would be a challenge to prepare with three strong wrists and a prehensile tail. For someone who's hurt ...
     And to top it off — because religion is, if nothing else, ritual excess — I'll tell you a secret that only Jews are privy to: There are TWO Seders. Not even all Jews know that — growing up a Reform Jew, I sure didn't. One Seder was plenty for us. It might take a whole hour. Giving up bread for a few days was our Golgotha.
     But observant Jews who aren't in Israel hold two — count 'em two — Seders, on consecutive nights, because ... well, it's complicated. Something about the crescent moon, and diaspora Jews not being sure when it appears over a land where we supposedly don't belong even though we've been living there continually for 2,000 years. So two Seders, to make sure the moon is in the right place over Israel.
     I'll be honest — twin Seders strike me as a lurch into fanaticism. Then again, I regularly indulge visiting cheder boys — young Hassidim in black garb — by praying with them when they stop by, our devotions somehow nudging the tarrying messiah along. So who am I to judge?
     Typically, my sister-in-law Janice holds the second Seder, a briefer, more casual affair. (Ours can clock in at six hours, speaking of pious excess, though that cuts down on outsiders angling for invites). But in one of those odd spasms of sisterly competitiveness, Janice contrived to recently break her wrist, too, just to one-up my wife.
     So now we're hosting both Seders.
     Madness, right? I started offering solutions.
     "Scrap the second Seder," I urged.
     No, my wife said. We man the ramparts of our faith and must stick our landing, moon-wise.
     "Let Prairie Grass cater them."
     No. We do not offload our religious responsibilities. We did not hire Sarah Stegner to bless our children when they married. Nor will chef Sarah be preparing our Seder feast, as delightful as the result would certainly be. Like Christmas trees, carryout festive meals are for the enjoyment of others. Not us.
     "I will prepare the Seder!" I announced.
     My wife snorted and gave me a pitying look. Really, it's as if, 35 years ago, I'd said, "OK, I will bear our children then!"
     "We could go to Paris again ..."
     One year, a decade ago, we shucked our responsibilities and fled to Paris during Passover, where we marked the holiday by walking arm-in-arm down the Rue Mouffetard, eating warm bread out of a paper bag. That's one beauty of Judaism — a very flexible faith. The last Jew excommunicated was Spinoza.
     Again no. I opened my mouth to point out that, what with the price of brisket at Romanian Kosher Meats, a trip to Paris might be cheaper. But ...
     The canyon floor is hurtling up, and this is the place where I'd typically offer a neat resolution, though one is not at hand. My bet: two Seders, prepared by my wife, me, and an "I am Spartacus!" cast of family volunteers. Seders were held in concentration camps. Our North Shore bed of ease and plenty will manage, even if our prime movers are creaky in the wrist department.

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