Rocky Ralbag did not plan his pre-seder strategy wisely. He knew he had to find time to eat at some point on Erev Pesach afternoon, but he had been caught at work until late at an emergency planning session for an upcoming project, and the next thing Rocky knew, he had missed lunch. By the time he tied up all his loose ends before leaving for his extended Passover vacation, he had just enough time to hop on the subway and catch a New Jersey Transit Bus at the Port Authority Station to get to West Orange in time for yom tov, and there was no opportunity for noshing.

When he got to his brother’s house, Ra’anan and his wife Leah were in full seder mode, setting the table, putting out the kids’ Passover school projects next to their seats, arranging all the seder-plate ingredients, and grinding the last-minute horseradish for marror. In all the rushing, no one had time to offer Rocky (short for Yerachmiel—may G-d have mercy!) any sustenance. Besides, there was a tradition not to eat late on the eve of Passover so as to fulfill the mitzvot of matzah and marror with an appetite. Rocky found an apple and a few walnuts sitting around the corner of the kitchen—perhaps leftovers from the charoset production effort—and ate them in a few bites, but he was still quite hungry.

The next thing Rocky knew, he was being escorted to his guest room to prepare for the evening synagogue services, and then minutes later he was off to shul for davening. He was so hungry, he thought about getting in line with the little kids for a cup of grape juice after the chazan made Kiddush, but then it turned out there was no Kiddush in shul Seder night. Would there be no end to his bad fortune?

As Rocky walked home from shul with Ra’anan he could feel pangs of hunger sweeping across his stomach. His belly was making noises he was sure people across the street could hear. He trudged home to his brother’s house in silence.

It took a while to get everyone to the table for seder. Ra’anan’s four kids were busy playing, and Leah’s parents had to find their special Haggadahs and their pillows for heseibah (although from what Ra’anan had told him, the Seder was the only time his in-laws ever did any leftward leaning of any sort).

With a little prodding, everyone sat down and the seder began. Leah asked Rocky to choose his own Kiddush cup for the seder, and feeling hypoglycemia starting to set in, Rocky chose the largest one on the table.

Everyone stared at him.

“Yerachmiel,” Leah said. “You picked the Kos Eliyahu for your arba kossot. It’s about three times the size of all the other cups.”

“How was I supposed to know it was the Kos Eliyahu?” Rocky asked.

“I guess because it has ‘The Cup of Elijah’ engraved on the side in big silver letters,” Ra’anan suggested.

“What can I say? That cup reminds me of Zayde, alav hashalom.”

“Rocky, I bought that cup last year,” Ra’anan said. “And it’s the most modern becher in my whole collection. Zayde would have never drunk from a cup like that.”

“Really? Somehow it reminded me of him. Maybe it’s because Bubbe kept all her silver so perfectly polished. My mistake.”

Leah gave him a pretty Kiddush cup with an image of the Kotel hama’aravi engraved on the side. It was smaller, but it would have to do.

Rocky patiently waited his turn as everyone around the table made his or her own Kiddush. He lifted his cup to recite the blessings, but before he could start, Tziporah, Ra’anan and Leah’s 7-year-old daughter, gave a dvar Torah about why we start the seder with Kiddush. Would there be no end to his suffering? Though her entire speech was relatively brief, as Rocky stared eagerly, desperately down at the wine in his cup, he thought Tziporah’s dvar Torah was longer than any drasha he had ever heard any rabbi give at any point in his entire life—and let me tell you, he had heard some very long-winded rabbis in his time.

Finally, Rocky got the nod. He flew through the recitation of Kiddush and chugged his sweet red seder wine like it was a bottle of Powerade.

“Ahhh. That was good.”

Mercifully, only the leader of the seder went to wash his hands for Urechatz.

Next came Karpas, with at least some opportunity to eat something, albeit just a sprig of parsley. Why couldn’t his family have the custom of potatoes or celery? Why? He would have to make the best of the situation.

As the bowl of parsley was passed around the table, followed immediately by the saltwater for the traditional dipping, Rocky took his single sprig but made sure that the plate of greens ended its rounds near his spot on the table.

Ra’anan reminded everyone to have the marror in mind when they made the bracha, then he recited the borey pri ha’adama and downed his sprig. Rocky actually had the pungent turkey in mind that he could smell in the kitchen when he said amen, but he ate his parsley with everyone else, chewing the salty stalk as slowly as he could to make it last as long as possible.

As Ra’anan went to break the middle matzah for the Afikoman, and Rocky was relatively certain no one was watching, he snuck the extra parsley, one piece at a time, onto his plate and ate them as inconspicuously as he could. He was on his 12th sprig when Leah spoke up.

“Boy, Yerachmiel, you sure do love your parsley.”

Busted.

“Why yes, I do,” Rocky said, feeling the Passover wine going to his head. “As a matter of a fact, it’s my favorite part of the seder. I just can’t get enough of it.”

“Why do you love the karpas so much?” Tziporah asked.

“Yes, do tell,” Ra’anan said, rolling his eyes.

“First of all, the parsley reminds me of spring, and Pesach is Chag Ha’aviv, the Festival of Spring.”

“True,” Ra’anan agreed.

“Second of all, parsley is a combination of two words: ‘paroh’ and ‘tzli.’”

“Really?” Tziporah asked.

“Sure,” Rocky said.

“Oy,” Ra’anan added.

“Paroh, of course was the king of Egypt who was very stubborn and famously said, ‘No, no, no, I will not let them go.’ And tzli is the Hebrew word for roasted, which is the way the Jews ate the Pesach sacrifice.”

“Good one,” Leah said. “You’re like a parsley sage.”

“Thank you,” Rocky said. “Third of all, I’ve heard it said that dipping the karpas in the saltwater is reminiscent of the brothers dipping Joseph’s ketonet hapasim, his coat of many colors, in blood to show Yaakov Avinu that he had been eaten by wild animals. And selling Yosef into bondage in Egypt was how the whole saga of our slavery started.”

“Is that true?” Leah asked.

“Yes, I’ve heard it, too,” Ra’anan agreed.

“And fourth of all, if you hold the parsley up like this, it looks like a tree, and that reminds us of the trees that the Israelites—”

“Enough already!” Ra’anan said. “You can eat as much karpas as you want.”

“Thank you,” Rocky said, popping another sprig in his mouth. “Can I ask one more question?”

“What?”

“How long would you say it will be until Motzi/Matzah? I sure do love my shmura matzah.”

Larry Stiefel is a pediatrician at Tenafly Pediatrics and gets ornery if not fed frequently.

By Larry Stiefel