Pesach- Passover, the Jewish spring festival.

 Pesach- Passover, the Jewish spring festival

If you're Jewish then please don't let me stop you. On Wednesday  evening Jews across the globe will be marking that traditional springtime festival. Yes folks it's Pesach again as it has been for so many decades and centuries that time has almost seemed immaterial. Pesach or Passover is that moment of the year when we all converge on matzot, matza, unleavened bread like famished people who haven't seen matza since at least the day after the first day of Pesach. Or it's that very meaningful first seder night when the world grows silent and reflective and starts talking about the great Exodus from Egypt. And then it begins.

On Wednesday evening a hushed reverence will descend on Barnet as my wonderful brother in law Jon, his equally as lovely sister in law Jo-ann and their family will welcome Pesach into their homes with all the warmth and cordiality that only family can bring to such extraordinary moments in our lives. We'll gather together in their living room, complete with pristine white tablecloths, beautiful candlesticks in the middle of the table and the seder plate with bitter herbs, egg, maror and the familiar shankbone, all heavy with stunning symbolism.

There are times when you can't help but feel good about being Jewish, the feeling you get when Judaism brings everything together to the table so to speak. There are the shy, young but eager small children who sit at the table attentively, giggling uncontrollably at the boxes of matzos scattered all over their homes, the bottles of Palwin wine placed strategically well away from their inquisitive hands and then the plates, crockery and cutlery quite possibly from Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. This happens every year so therefore it's the most spiritually uplifting event you can ever hope to experience as a Jew.

So here we are again at Pesach and the fond childhood reminiscences tumble freely from your mind rather like tiny gems from jewellery boxes. They are the Pesach occasions you couldn't possibly forget quite simply because they meant so much to you. They defined that special, unique set of nights that stand out from the rest because everybody feels so appreciative of each other's company, so delighted to see you around the seder table, so loving and mutually affectionate within the family circle. In fact it's a great excuse to scoff as many matzos in such huge profusion that by the time you start your meal you've no idea where you're going to fit all of those vast quantities of food that now follow.

But your childhood was such an idyllic one that it almost seems too good to be true. You dig into your memory like those dedicated archaeologists who just remain permanently fascinated with history. Pesach had to be my wonderful grandparents favourite time of the year. My dear, lovely grandpa, a learned Hebrew scholar of the highest distinction, survived the Holocaust heroically and admirably. He would sit there, mind locked in a horrific solitude, quietly and gravely chanting the prayers and blessings but satisfied nonetheless that his family and grandchildren were there to see it all. Pesach again, every year.

By the early 1970s there were no more questions to be asked, no reasons why the Holocaust happened but simply a recognition of the way that things were fated to turn out. The inquests, post mortems, explanations, documentaries, harrowing accounts of six million Jews dying so unnecessarily in the gas chambers just seemed like statements of the obvious, tragic death and destruction that should never be allowed to repeat itself ever again. The sobering reality of course was that it did unfold quite horrendously and life for my beautiful grandma Rachel and her equally as lovely husband Jack would never seem quite the same.

The bitterness and resentment would eat away at both my grandparents for most of their lives and maybe this is the right time to dwell on the happier side of Pesach, the cup of Elijah that my loving grandma and grandpa would always insist had been sipped. The wine had been drunk quite satisfyingly regardless of all the evidence in front of the eyes of my brother and yours truly. But we were then told to look at the ripple of wind that hovered over the cup which would have suggested otherwise. So we looked and looked and trusted that our grandparents were perfectly right even though we knew they must have been teasing us quite jovially.

The stories though were endless. You can never be sure about dates or years but you must have been very young. For what must have been the second seder night, my grandparents returned the compliment after the first night had been spent in the salubrious Essex suburb of Gants Hill. My dad, who will always have a special place in the hearts of my brother Mark and yours truly, stood up at the table and waited for all the excitement to subside. Half way through one of the many blessings for wine my lovely dad, without any prior knowledge and completely unexpectedly, found that, much to his and our own amusement, his trousers were falling from his waist, thus revealing nothing more than his modesty. Down the said trousers fell and we simply fell about with irresistible laughter.

Then at my grandma and grandpa as a child of roughly five or six, we had just finished the main meal of the evening and dessert would be promptly served by my adorable grandma. It consisted of prunes and custard but little did she know that the first grandson she'd so unfailingly doted on, had somewhat naively assumed that the stones in the prunes had to be eaten as well. So after eating goodness knows how many prunes my family, shocked at such innocent foolishness, rushed number one grandson and son, accompanied with much younger brother, to the Accident and Emergency in the local hospital where your stones were pumped out of your system.

And finally there were the seder nights themselves. After an intensive session of munching, eating, biting, savouring, salivating and enjoying the lavish feast you would survey the utter carnage on the table. Everywhere there were wine stained Haggadahs, yellow and red prayer books almost transformed, table cloths a thick purple vision of messy mayhem. There were matza crumbs everywhere, scattered quite liberally over beautifully stitched Hebrew lettering along with remnants of chicken bones and paper serviettes that had also been dabbed in liberal sprinklings of wine. You were also presented with several hardback classic books including Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by your uncle David.

Looking back on those formative years of your childhood you could hardly imagine which direction your life would take. You felt enormously privileged to be part of a Pesach ceremony that would become such an integral part of your life. To this day you could never quite understand why your grandpa thought nothing of racing through all the prayers and blessings in such record time, a sequence of muttering and mumbling the words but at the same time, immersing himself in Judaism, smiling at me tenderly. Oh for the sweet joys of Pesach. Happy Pesach everybody. Chag Pesach Semach to you all.