It’s in my DNA; I can’t deny that I love giving in to my cleaning neurosis

I’M cleaning for Pesach, tackling one closet at a time. I pull out sweaters and shirts and scarves and socks and shoes, sort out what to keep and what to get rid of. I refold each item with military precision, wipe down each shelf, and then put everything back in orderly stacks. I scrub the closet doors, dust off the top, shpritz the mirrors, and voilà! Another closet checked off the list.

I step back to look at my handiwork, to bask in my sense of accomplishment.

Every year my husband reminds me that Pesach cleaning is not to be confused with spring cleaning. It’s about getting rid of chometz. Spring cleaning is all very fine, and if you’ve got the time, fantastic, but know that 90 percent of the sweat and grit you’re expending has very little to do with actual chometz.

I then politely remind him that I am Hungarian, which is my go-to response to most differences of opinion we have. When I dust and polish and bleach every inch of my house, I’m simply continuing my proud heritage. Somewhere inside is a voice, I think it’s Babbi Erzsi’s, in her adorable Hungarian-accented English, telling me that this is the “vay” it has to be.

So as Purim exits and Pesach rounds the corner, I once again take up my post. It’s in my DNA; I can’t deny that I love giving in to my cleaning neurosis. I inhale the glorious scent of lemon and ammonia — it’s perfume to me — and try to ignore the eye rolls surreptitiously directed at me by my (supportive?) family.