Every year, as the last crumbs of matzah are cleared and the dishes are finally put away, I find myself reflecting on what truly makes our Passover seders meaningful. Yes, there is the text of the Haggadah, the retelling of the Exodus, and the timeless themes of freedom and gratitude. But, what lingers most are the traditions—those quirky, deeply personal, sometimes puzzling rituals that transform a seder into a living, breathing family story.
At the center of it all is my mother, the matriarch of our family, who is turning 98 this month. She has overseen more seders than most of us can count, carrying forward traditions with a quiet determination that has shaped not only our Passover table, but our sense of family itself. So many of the rituals we do are because she – and her ancestors – did them.
Like most families, we perform the ritual removal of drops of wine during the recitation of the plagues. But in our home, that moment carries a twist. After dipping a finger into the wine, we lick our pinky—an act that might raise eyebrows elsewhere, but for us is a small, defiant tribute to my late father who always instructed us not to do so. It is our way of remembering him, of keeping his spirit at the table.
Then comes the horseradish. Grated fresh by the youngest members of the family just before the seder begins, it is potent enough to clear sinuses. What began as a culinary choice has evolved into a full-fledged competition: who can eat the most? Faces turn crimson, eyes stream, and laughter fills the room.
Our salt water is not just salty. It is extra salty, made with hot water so that it becomes a super-saturated solution. Not only is it a sensory reminder of the story we tell, it also is a tribute to seders long ago shared with dear family friends that under-salted the salt water!
And before all of this begins, there is the slivovitz. Plum brandy. Sounds good, huh? It is not! A small glass, raised together, and then—well, “choked down.” It is bracing, communal, and somehow the perfect, if slightly jarring, way to launch into the evening.
Some traditions come from generations past. My grandmother Ethel’s bulkelach—those unmistakable Passover rolls – make their annual appearance, connecting us directly to her kitchen. Others are more…strategic. Three rounds of appetizers ensure that by the time the meal arrives, no one is particularly hungry – a paradox we seem committed to recreating year after year.
And of course, no seder would be complete without the great debates. Each year, we revisit the questions: To eat kitniyot or not? Do Jews in the diaspora really need two seders? These conversations are as much a part of the ritual as the Four Questions themselves, reminding us that Judaism has always thrived on discussion, disagreement, and engagement.
In recent years, we have added new traditions as well. A Miriam’s Cup now sits alongside Elijah’s, honoring the role of women in our story of redemption. And because we do not currently have young participants, a trivia game has emerged as an alternative to the search for the afikomen—proof that even ancient rituals can make room for a little friendly competition.
Through it all, my mother remains the living link across generations—reminding us, simply by being there, of how precious it is to gather, to remember, and to carry these traditions forward. And perhaps that is where our family story meets synagogue life. Our congregation is, in many ways, a larger table—one where customs develop over time, where certain practices become our way of doing things, and where those practices quietly shape a sense of belonging.Some of our traditions are long-standing. We read the full kriyah of the Torah portion, embracing the fullness of the text week after week. We stand for the Kaddish, even as many other Conservative congregations sit. After every Shabbat and festival service, we gather for a kiddush luncheon, not just to eat, but to linger, to connect, to turn prayer into community.
Other traditions are woven into the fabric of who we are socially as well as spiritually. Our Sisterhood and Men’s Club Shabbatot highlight the many hands that sustain our congregation. Our annual barbecue brings us together in a different kind of sacred space—outdoors, relaxed, joyful. A friendly greeter at the front entrance ensures that no one walks in unnoticed, that every person is welcomed as if they are coming home. And some traditions, like our monthly Erev Shabbat Live bring an energy and accessibility that meets people where they are.
In synagogue life, as in our seders, it is often these lived traditions that create belonging. The familiar rhythms, the shared experiences, the spirited debates—they bind us together just as surely as the liturgy itself. They remind us that Judaism is not only something we study or observe, but something we experience in community.
Passover calls on us to remember that we were once strangers in a strange land. Synagogue life offers us the opportunity to ensure that no one remains a stranger for long. But that only happens if we continue to show up – to participate, to preserve what matters, and to create new traditions that future generations will one day look back on with the same mix of reverence, humor, and love, And long after the matzah is gone, that may be the most lasting story of all—not just the traditions we inherit, but the ones we build, nurture, and share as a community.
