A Passover story

Are you sure I shouldn't take my nose ring out?

No, it's fine, leave it.

How do I look?

Beautiful.

Your mother is going to hate me.

My mother hates everyone.

Not a comfort.

It was three years ago, and there I was -- not Jewish, 5 years older than Favorite Ex, a vegetarian, and going to DC for Passover to meet his entire family for the first time. I was terrified. Hard to believe it, but I'm a little shy. A lot shy, actually. I'm fine on a one-on-one basis, but put me in a group, without tequila, and I get a little wallflowery.

The Dad liked me, but Dads always like me. Did okay with grams and the brothers and the cousins. And, on top of all of that, had a blast. It was a lot more fun than dying Easter eggs and eating a hollow chocolate bunny that died for our sins. Take out all the commercial holiday stuff, and Catholicism is pretty dull.

You know, your Mom never opened my wine.

That's because it wasn't kosher.

Bullshit! I spent like an hour tormenting one of the dudes at Astor Wines to make sure it was kosher for Passover.

Guess my Mom just hated you, then.

I knew it.