Making Pesach for the first time is a rite of passage, I tell myself

It’s time. I make my way to the wooden shelf that holds a glass tray cluttered with abandoned matches. As I climb onto the stepstool, my eyes align with the candlesticks. Their silver sparkles in the soft glow of the room.

A few weeks ago, we made the decision to stay in Eretz Yisrael for Pesach — for the first time. Making Pesach is a rite of passage, I told myself. Like the first time you touch a raw chicken with your bare hands, or clean a toilet, or scrape a cholent pot clean. It’s another notch in your balabusta belt. And now my husband and I were reaching this milestone in the short history of our married life.

Okay, actually, it wasn’t all that glamorous. We were kind of forced to do things on our own, when our plans to fly to America were deemed impractical. Our newborn was four months old and still colicky, and we couldn’t fathom a 12-hour plane ride with a screaming child who refused to nurse in public. So the decision was essentially made for us, and we began the arrangements for our very first homemade Pesach.

First there were the lists of what to buy, from pots and pans to ketchup and mustard (oh wait, that’s kitniyos), from matzos and maror to baby powder and broomsticks. Lists of tips — where to shop, how to clean the toughest areas, what to feed your family the week before.

The calendar was marked off with big red words blocking the dates: dining room, bedrooms, bathroom (was there really chometz in the bathroom?), and then the finale: the kitchen.