If you think I went to a Passover Seder just to eat and get tipsy on a Monday night, you are completely correct.

But as I slurped down a spoonful of salty matzah ball soup, I thought of my Nana. I shook my head. This was not the Passover I knew and loved.

Oy, gevalt.

While the service in Goldstein Auditorium on Monday was lovely, my favorite holiday wasn’t the same without my Pepa mumbling parts of the prayers he didn’t know and my Nana’s Jewish cooking.

The matzah ball soup was too salty, the chicken was weird looking and the individual couscous had molded together into a weirdly textured paste, which tasted just as good as it sounds. I drank more wine and ate more dessert than dinner.

Because of my Nana, who would famously answer the statement, “I’m not hungry” by saying, “That’s not an excuse for not eating,” my “Jewishness” is very food-based. Even though I can’t quote a Torah passage, I can — in grossly vivid detail — tell you exactly what my Nana’s kugel tastes like. Hit me up for specifics.

But eating specifics aside, the story of Passover is really important for my people.

For those who aren’t familiar with it, I’ll give you the quick and dirty version. I was bat mitzvah-ed, so I’m qualified to do something like this. So sheket bevakasha, sit on your tuckus and feast your eyes on “The Story of Passover: A Parody” as told by yours truly.

Once upon a time, the Jews were being persecuted. Again. They were slaves in Egypt and the Egyptians ordered the Jews to kill all of their babies. One woman was like, “nuh-uh,” and put her baby in a basket to be sent down the Nile River.

An Egyptian princess found him, said, “Sweet! Free baby!” and raised him as her own.

Fast-forward. The baby’s all grown and his name is Moses. Maybe you’ve heard of him. After all, Moses was super hunky (No, that’s not from “The Prince of Egypt,” that’s a hard Bible fact).

After talking to a burning bush, Moses told Egypt’s pharaoh to let his people go. When the pharaoh said, “Hell nah,” Moses said, “Do your thang, God.”

The river turned into blood, and frogs and locusts wreaked havoc until finally, the angel of death killed all the first-born Egyptians. The pharaoh was so sad, he told the Jews to GTFO.

“Now?” exclaimed the baker, “but my bread hasn’t leavened!”

The baker, whose name was Harold Frederick Matzah III, immediately trademarked this flat bread, told everyone they had to eat it on this week forever, and now his great-great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter is sitting pretty in a beach house in Long Island, still living off of Matzah’s assets.

Or, at least, so I’ve heard.

Anyway, when the Jews left Egypt, the pharaoh realized he didn’t have any more slaves. He said, “LOL, JK. My b, Jews, my b.” Who else was he going to get to build the pyramids and finish his sphinx-shaped tomb?

Moses saw the Egyptian army approaching as his people reached the Red Sea. He needed to find a way to part it, ASAP.

Remembering he had a magic staff in his hand, he said, “Here goes nothing.”

He banged the staff to the floor and the sea parted. All of the Jews ran through to safety. But when the Egyptians tried to follow them, the sea laughed and said, “TTYL” and swallowed the army.

Then, the Jews wandered around the desert for 40 years, because that’s what God wrote when he couldn’t think of another transition.

And that’s the Passover story. It’s why we can celebrate our Jewish history by eating matzah and raising a wine glass (or two, or three, or four).

Happy Passover.

Sarah Schuster is a sophomore magazine journalism major. Her column appears weekly in Pulp. She can be reached at seschust@syr.edu.

Published on March 27, 2013 at 10:11 pm