The Passing of Passover?

It is springtime in Israel, and there are still places where the scent of the blossoms of the famous Jaffa orange fills the air. In ancient Israel, this was a time of new flocks and ceremonial sacrifice, new wheat and ceremonial discarding of bread and wheat from the previous crop.

Today, the agricultural roots of the weeklong Passover holiday have long been forgotten. Instead, Pesach often means nothing more than the gathering of the extended family on Seder night, overconsumption of an astounding array of foods (both traditional and not) and tickets for a flight to Euro Disney the next day.

In fact, about 500,000 Israelis, or roughly 10% of the population, will leave the country during Passover. It’s an ideal time to travel: Israeli Jews are required to celebrate only one night of Seder (many Jews outside Israel celebrate two Seders--a custom derived from the desire to coordinate time zones with Israel).

During the next week, called Hol Hamoed, Jewish businesses are open only half days, until 2 p.m. The last two days of Passover are also a holiday among the observant, and the Moroccans tack on another day for the ritual feast of the Mimuna. With schools closed until the end of April, the kids have a lot of time on their hands.

Although some Israelis will carry their matzos with them to Paris or Prague, others will just forget that it is Passover. In Israel, they have almost no choice: It is illegal for Jewish supermarkets and groceries there to sell any other bread, and stores are required to cover their hametz (foods forbidden during the holiday) to keep it out of sight. By the end of the holiday, the population will be lining up at bakeries.

But wherever you live, it’s increasingly hard in recent years to remember the sense-memories that I seem to recall were integral parts of this holiday. Once a year, my mother would retrieve the glistening black and white Passover plates from the basement and put a giant pot of gefilte fish to cook for nearly 60 relatives who would join us.

The Seder table gleamed with white and silver, and there was the smell of the dill-scented chicken soup and fluffy kneidelach (matzo balls), crusty potato kugel, sweet-scented brisket and homemade sponge cakes, and matzo brei the following morning.

The house was redolent with the scent of plain fresh vegetables, plain potatoes and green onions, chopped liver and egg matzo. Our diet was limited that week, but we never complained. We liked and accepted the difference.

Although Americans have become accustomed to store-bought gefilte fish and cake mixes for decades, in Israel kosher-for-Passover convenience foods are still relatively new (and mostly imported from the States).

And just recently, they’ve been joined by the Passover clones. Last year for example, Osem, one of Israel’s largest food manufacturers, introduced kosher-for-Passover noodles and pasta, and another brand was imported from the States, along with a Cheerios-like breakfast cereal, all made with matzo flour.

The Elite Confections candy company also came out with kosher-for-Passover versions of their most popular bars. They’re so perfect; you almost can’t tell the difference. And that’s the problem.

“My kids will never experience Pesach as I did,” admits American-born Aviva Lavi, a 40-year-old mother of three living in Tel Aviv. “How can it be different or special for them if they eat exactly the same foods that smell practically the same way as they do all year round? Instead of having any meaning, it all becomes superficial, like MTV.”

As the older generation moves on, the art of making classic dishes is being lost irretrievably, along with the time-honored process of intergenerational teaching in the kitchen. With no one to help or to learn, more and more old-timers are succumbing to the manufacturers.

Slowly, the delicate textures and tastes are changing, as food processors replace hand-chopping and as additive-rich “soup powder” replaces the ancient art of seasoning with cumin and cardamom, ginger and coriander.

Is there hope? Only if today’s young Jews begin to appreciate and respect the real flavors of their culinary heritage, whether Ashkenazic or Sephardic, as much as they love sushi, tacos and foie gras and only if they are willing to take the time to learn.

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Glazer is food columnist for the Jerusalem Post.