Freedom

Swish, smash, slam!

I looked at my bedside clock. 11:47 p.m. WTF?

Clash, clamor, clink!

The Professor was either being really sweet or really annoying.

Thud, thump, thrash.

Or both.

We had our Passover Seder. Our roles have been defined for a long time now. We both invite, I plan the menu, shop and cook, set the table, he leads the Seder, we ro sham bo for who clears and loads, and then the pots, pans and wine glasses are left to the person with the least tolerance for mess. Or, as in last night’s case, the person looking to get laid or just can’t sleep. Or both.

My mother taught me never to criticize how someone does something or else they might stop doing it. So when I hear the dishes being tossed around the kitchen like Frisbees, I just do my best to turn a deaf ear. When I think a serving platter is being shoved into the dishwasher, I bite my tongue really hard. What is more important? The Professor helping out or a non-chipped heirloom?

Passover is about celebrating freedom. On this night, Jews all over the world get together, recline around a table, eat special foods, drink ceremonial wine and tell the story of how the Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt. It’s an inspired tradition, to say the least.

I reminded myself of that as I turned out my light and went back to sleep. Who was I to tell someone how to hand wash dishes (super hot soapy water--glass first, greasy pots last) or dry wine glasses (do not attempt to force a towel in them with your large hand). No, I didn’t dare. That not only would have broken a covenant but would have cost me as well.

Freedom
You've got to give for what you take.