Bread Burning on 9th Avenue

We came across this bread burning (a pre-Passover ritual) on 9th Avenue and 45th Street. At first we smelled some plastic burning, but then when we saw what was going on we figured it was just the accelerant used to start the fire. As we watched, however, we noticed several people putting bread wrapped in plastic on the burning pile. Hmmmm. The smell dissipated after a moment, so hopefully those standing close-by weren't too affected.

A very helpful gentleman (who was surprised I knew what matzoh was) explained the ritual as Chametz, the time to clean the house of all leavened bread items. Burning ensures the bread items are truly gone. This Crown Heights website has a very useful explanation as well. A member of Cheveirem was on hand to oversee the safety of this burn, but I don't know, it didn't look too controlled to me. I prefer the burns that are within a container or oven. That said, it seemed to go off without a hitch, and those watching were satisfied that their leavened items were gone for Passover.

I think I'll cook up some matzoh brie.

Passover Poem

Thanks to our friends Mical and Tim (and Dora the super-dog), we'll be going to a Seder tomorrow evening. I've always loved going to Seders. Perhaps it's my love of horseradish? Perhaps my strange attraction to gefilte fish? Or perhaps it's being allowed to have some naughty, illegal wine. Either way, it's a good thing. In honor of the upcoming holiday, my poetic offering for the day is "Why do I remain in Exile?" by Nicholas Gordon, a self-published e-author. Especially with the 60th anniversary of Israel's current incarnation coming up, it seems especially apropos to the part of the Seder where one says "Next Year in Jerusalem."

Why Do I Remain in Exile?

Why do I remain in exile?
I say, "Next year in Jerusalem!"
Seders come and Seders go.
I feel the pull but not the pain.

I say, "Next year in Jerusalem!"
I do not mean it, not for real.
I feel the pull but not the pain.
My anguish must be self-imposed.

I do not mean it, not for real.
I mean it in my Jewish bones.
My anguish must be self-imposed.
I lie becalmed, and wait, and wonder.

I mean it in my Jewish bones.
Seders come and Seders go.
I lie becalmed, and wait, and wonder:
Why do I remain in exile?