On Thursday, a week before Erev Shabbos Hagadol, my kitchen was bare and squeaky clean — ready to be turned over. In those early Covid days, when we thought interacting with anyone outside our immediate family was dangerous, I didn’t have anyone to help me kasher my sinks. So I put on a bravado I didn’t feel and called my father, brothers, and friends too many times to count to ask for instructions. I even sent pictures of my sink to my rav, a tzaddik who patiently endured my endless questions.

Finally, I worked up the courage to heat the water to a rolling boil.

Standing in my bare kitchen, the bubbles frothing energetically, I told myself, “I can do this!” My towels were ready. The water was ready.

Lifting the heavy pot, I carefully poured the boiling water all around the sink. The water splashed onto the walls and the drain hole, and steam went everywhere. Kosher l’Pesach!

But wait! Did I get every single spot? Getting nervous again, I rewarmed a second pot of water.

When the water was ready and boiling again, I lifted it from the fire. Only this time, the towel I was holding caught on the metal grate of the burner next to the pot. Not wanting a fire and realizing I couldn’t lift the pot this way, I slammed the pot back onto the stovetop — and the very-full pot of boiling water overflowed onto my entire arm.

In the hairsbreadth of shock before pain set in, I had the presence of mind to shut the flame, which was pretty strategic of me, considering the towel was still stuck on the stovetop. I ran to my tiny bathroom sink and stuck my scalded arm under the cold running water.

It’s pretty comical how during those first moments, I actually texted (one-handed, obviously) a mom whose daughter I was about to tutor on Zoom. I told her a medical situation cropped up and unfortunately I couldn’t make it to the session.

Medical situation, indeed. Let’s just say my arm looked like it had lost a very one-sided battle with a pot of boiling water. Blisters, welts — the works. The burned area was so large, I couldn’t fit it under the running water at the same time.

The pain was making me dizzy. In my hazy fog, one of my kids knocked on the bathroom door and asked for something inane. I probably said yes to something I don’t usually allow; I don’t remember. I didn’t want my kids to see me fall apart so I stayed in the bathroom for a long time, breathing through the agony.

I finally called a neighbor, a tzadeikes who did all she could to help. She sent a nurse over to my house, who looked at my burn from the doorway (she had an immunocompromised family member and didn’t want to come close), and told me she thought it would be okay, it didn’t look so bad to her. She gave me bandages and gauze, and told me how to apply them to the burns with Vaseline.

I don’t think she realized (from six feet away, remember?) the extent of the damage, but I now had second-degree burns covering much of my forearm.

Somewhere in that hazy blur, it dawned on me that despite my kosher l’Pesach kitchen, there was no way I could cook for Yom Tov. I could barely use my arm for that first week. It’s a miracle Pesach happened in my home at all. My (Christian) doctor reassured me that accepting food from others was safe, even during the pandemic. She also told me to say “Psalm 91” for protection, but that’s a story for another time.

I’d been so excited to cook with my kids for Yom Tov, but Hashem had other plans. Instead, He wanted us to see and feel the kindness of our wonderful community. My many friends rallied around me that week. We received so many potato kugels that my kids became culinary experts (snobs?) in determining which one was best. We had more than enough food, and I was beyond grateful.

And then, on Erev Pesach, Chani* arrived — not with a ready-made dish, but with a raw, fully prepped chicken soup. The chicken was cleaned, the vegetables cut, the spices measured. All I had to do was put it on the fire. (Mommies don’t get trauma breaks.)

It might seem small compared to the outpouring of generosity that week, but it meant everything. With my burned arm, I felt helpless — unable to cook, unable to finish what I had started. But as the soup simmered, filling my kitchen with its familiar, comforting aroma, I felt like me again.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 939)