For a holiday packed with symbolism, there was nothing particularly significant about the choice of this year’s seder theme at my house, “Passover on a Stick.” My dear friend Cindy and I were entertaining ourselves over cake pops (what’s up with that trend?!) at a Bat Mitzvah not long ago, when she got a gleam in her eye.

It was hard to top last year’s Heavy Metal Seder, but I think we did a good job.

Turns out, there are many traditional Passover items that don’t do well on sticks. Like brisket. And matzo. Matzo balls, wine, meringues, almond cake — and just about anything on the seder plate: not  sitck-worthy.

I did manage to shove some canned macaroons onto lollipop sticks and dip them in chocolate and sprinkles; Cindy had the genius idea to bring the kids Wikki Stix. The rest of the guests got creative, too: rhutabaga in ginger, dipped in creme fraiche and served on toothpicks; fruit and mint on skewers; grilled veggies and fries on skewers; and even gefile fish/cucumbers/tomatoes/horseradish – on sticks.

Don’t worry, we got some seder-ing in there, and even a round of Dayenu. Most of all, it was a lovely evening filled with family and friends — for some, the first seder. (Hopefully not the last for anyone, though we might have scared a couple people away.)

And may I recommend sangria at your next Passover celebration? The vanilla/apple/cinnamon/red wine version I’ve been playing with lately tasted like charoset in a glass.

From the Things-I’m-Not-Particularly-Proud-Of category, I’ll admit that I wasn’t very nice. “I am SO NOT INTERESTED,” I huffed (and puffed), rushing past him. “Stop bothering people!”

I was in a hurry. In a hurry because I had to get home and get ready to teach Sophie’s second grade class how to play dreidel.

As I neared my house, turning off Queen and wrapping the cord around the Shuffle, it occurred to me, as it often does, that I’m quite a hypocrite. I won’t take this sweet (he looked sweet) man’s pamphlet, but I expect two dozen 7 year olds to sit rapt while I tell them the story of my own religion’s holiday? (And then teach them all to gamble — go Jews!)

I’m not sure if I rationalized it or if I’m right, but by the time I pulled up to school I’d decided not to feel guilty. This is different. This is simply educating the other kids about how Sophie is different from them (oy — for once not how she’s different in that way) without trying to get them to convert.

Of course, chocolate coins can be quite convincing, even if you don’t mean them to. My mother came along and after dreidel she put on some Hanukkah music and everyone danced. It was a lot of fun.

And it was important. To me, anyway. There are very few Jewish kids at our school. Even fewer than I grew up with. I’m sure I’ve told you this story before, but before Annabelle was born, Ray and I had a talk about her Jewish education. Ray’s a fallen Catholic and I’m a shaky Jew, and he’s pretty down on organized religion in general, but he announced over pizza that night that he wanted our kids to know they were Jewish.

“Better they know than someone else tell them,” he explained. I knew exactly what he meant, and it’s stuck with me ever since. So even though we don’t go to temple (much — okay, not at all in the last year), I go to school and teach the other kids about Hanukkah. It’s something to be proud of.

What does that have in common with the I Heart Jesus guy? I don’t know. I think part of what bugged me so much about him was that he was standing near the huge Chabad electric menorah on ASU’s campus, lit for the seventh night of Hanukkah, one of the few signs of Judaism you ever see in a part of this town where it’s impossible to find matzoh meal at Safeway, and where no one’s bought up the frozen latkes at Trader Joe’s.

What I wanted to say to the old guy was, “Can’t you just give us eight days a year? Do you have to get in the way today?”

Instead, I shook my head and kept walking.

Happy Hanukkah.

I don’t have a lot of romantic notions about camping — except when it comes to Annabelle.

I’d like to think that she’ll look back on our trip last week as part of the Summer She Turned 9 — the summer she danced with her Gaga, performed in a play version of “Diary of A Wimpy Kid” and went to the beach with her cousins for the umpteenth time. The summer she went to Yellowstone.

I imagine her collection of memories: Searching (in vain) out the window of her daddy’s giant truck for grizzly bears, then watching as buffalo practically brushed up against the windows during a late afternoon traffic jam.  The stink and gurgle of those weird “thermal features.” Learning to stoke the campfire and put up the tent. Doubling over in giggles with her mom when her little sister Sophie asked a forest ranger for “extra towels” and pretending to be Olivia the Pig in order to coax that darn Sophie to do everything from get out of the truck to pick up her feet and hike. Freezing in the tent at night, listening to the wind come up and the air come out of her poor dad’s mattress — and to her mom snoring. Looking at the stars, watching movies on the iPhone, making up family versions of the Double Rainbow Song.

And Margaret. I bet she’ll remember Margaret. For all her smarts, up to now Annabelle’s not been a huge reader — not in a can’t-put-that-book-down way. Not until Margaret. I read Judy Blume’s “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” when I was in fourth grade (or maybe third) but it didn’t occur to me that Annabelle was ready for it until a dear friend warned me her own daughter had just finished it and might start chatting with Annabelle about periods and boys.

I packed a copy of the book in Annabelle’s little pink backpack, along with her Nintendo DS and “Spesh” and “Ella,” her security blanket and stuffed elephant. She devoured it. At one point I had to warn her to slow down, that she’d run out of reading material while we were camping (one of my own personal fears). But as it was, her timing was perfect: Annabelle finished Margaret on the last morning we camped — sunk into a folding camp chair, orange Croc-ed ankles crossed daintily, dangling inches from the ground.

(Ah, the drama of the last pages of a good book. My own favorite memory is from fifth or sixth grade, when my pal Glenna Clark played the theme to the movie “Ice Castles” on her family’s piano for extra tear-jerking effect as I read the final paragraphs of Danielle Steele’s “The Promise”.)

Annabelle turned the last page and heaved one of those great big satisfied sighs you sigh when you’ve finished the greatest book you’ve ever read, and I immediately thought about which Judy Blume to give her next: “Otherwise Known as Shelia the Great” is probably too young. I’m not ready myself for “Then Again, Maybe I Won’t.” Perhaps “Deenie”? It’s a delicious debate. But I’m glad I didn’t have any other books with me; it was nice for Annabelle to spend some time reflecting with Margaret.

“Margaret talks to God,” Annabelle told me one morning as we walked the now well-worn path from our campsite to the (thankfully very clean with flush toilets) bathroom. I know, I answered, waiting, worried — this whole god thing is still a sore spot for me, particularly as the Jewish High Holidays approach this year and I have no better answers as to how proceed with a religious education than I did last year. (We’re still attending the Church of Dance….)

“And now,” she continued, “when I’m worried about something, like where I’m going to school next year or stuff going on with friends, I have someone to talk to. I can talk to Margaret.”

Frankly, I can’t think of a better confidant.

Today, my dear and oft-mentioned friend Deborah posted a poem on her Facebook page.

Today, I was going to post the recipe I used for my (burned) Rosh Hashana challah, but instead I think I’ll post this beautiful poem — in honor of the cherished people lost this past year.

Not just the people I knew.

I didn’t agree with a (politcal) word he wrote, but I teared up this morning when Cokie Roberts mentioned that William Safire had planned to host a Yom Kippur break the fast dinner tonight. As she and others put it, he was a man who disagreed without being disagreeable. A man who chose his words. We could use more of that in this world. 

And I was sad to learn that Lucy Vodden died. She was the namesake for John Lennon’s “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” — a poem of a song.

Speaking of poetry, here is “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver, with thanks to Deborah.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I’m not really kidding. This year, Saturday morning class has been joined by Wednesday afternoon class (this time with my mom, who runs the studio — how could I resist?) and if she gets a part in the Snow Queen (a Nutcracker alternative run, again, out of my mom’s studio) it’ll be Sunday afternoon rehearsals, too, all fall.

The temple we’d join is quite relaxed, but requires third graders attend school on Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. Too much.

That’s okay.

As I write this, Dirty Dancing is on TV in the background. Patrick Swayze (RIP) never really did it for me, but boy, did I (do I) love him in that movie. And Jennifer Grey, even if she did eventually cave and get the nose job.

I’m thinking of playing hooky from work Friday morning, after Sophie’s IEP meeting (it’s finally been scheduled) to see Fame, though I’m quite concerned the remake will ruin a truly perfect original.

For me, the dance parties are pretty much limited to my kitchen, unless there’s a great deal of alcohol involved. That’s okay. In my imagination, I make it into the Fame school. Johnny and I do the mambo — perfectly.

That’s not to say either of my girls are destined for the stage. That’s okay, too, because it’s the pure joy that dance brings to both of them — that’ I’ve always seen it bring to my mom — that brings me to my knees.

I’ve been meaning to take the girls to a “tot shabbat” forever, so I was pleased when my dear friend Kacey mentioned her family would be at the Rosh Hashana service. We tagged along, joined by another dear friend, Deborah.

Both Kacey and Deborah belong to this temple; it’s the one we’ll join if we ever join one. This was a big step in that direction, though I’m still far from a commitment to organized religion.

Toward the end of the service this morning, Annabelle leaned over, pointed to the rabbi and asked me, “Why does he keep talking when no one is listening?”

An hour is a long time for that many children to be in one room, even if they are constantly standing up and sitting down, as is traditional in a Jewish service. At that point, I wasn’t even facing forward anymore. I’d realized, too late, that Sophie needed constant monitoring.

Rosh Hashana marks the beginning of the “High Holidays,” 10 holy days culminating in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. (That’s the big kahuna, the day you fast from sunset to sunset, and ask for forgiveness — like Catholic confession, only en masse and all in one day, once a year. Handy.)

“Today is the world’s birthday!” the rabbi said, by way of explaining that it’s the day we go back to the beginning to tell the story of creation. That got Sophie excited. She kept asking, “Whose birthday is it?” quite loudly.

But that wasn’t the problem.

Before we got to The Problem, we were having a nice time, with the girls enjoying the music, switching off on the adults’ laps.

Not Ray’s lap. After initially indicating he’d like to attend, Ray took a pass this morning — I think he was worried he’d have to wear a tie. In the end, I was a little relieved, since he’s really not down with the god thing. “I’m afraid if I walk into temple, I might catch fire,” he said. Which was pretty amusing, I had to admit.

I can see why he was uncomfortable. At least I was raised Jewish. Ray still doesn’t quite get the concept of the agnostic Jew, though he’s been married to one for almost 12 years.

There were plenty of other laps to go around, lots of singing, and the highlight — the blowing of the ram’s horn, the “shofar,” which I’ll botch by trying to explain but which basically is a call to worship/atone/donate money to the temple. (I’m kidding about that last one — sort of.)

For me, the best part of the service was the exchange Annabelle and I had when the rabbi read from the torah, telling the story (albeit an abbreviated, watered-down version) of Adam and Eve.

“Mommy, who wrote those stories?” Annabelle asked.

“Well, some people say god wrote the stories,” I told her. “But to be honest, I don’t really believe that. I think some really nice people wrote the stories as a way of teaching people to be good.”

She nodded energetically and settled into my lap. Not bad, I thought to myself.

A few minutes later, I realized that Sophie had been turned in her seat, engaged in conversation with a woman sitting in back of us with her family. (It was that chaotic and loud; I couldn’t hear.) At first, I thought Sophie was grilling the woman about just how the shofar works, but then I realized the conversation had taken a turn.

The woman’s son — he was 7 or 8, I think — clearly had a birth defect that affected his arm, which ended about where your and my elbows are. Too late, it dawned on me that Sophie had noticed and was asking the boy and his mom, again and again, “Why? What happened?”

The woman was patient and sweet (“He was born that way,” she shrugged, which didn’t satisfy Sophie) but by the time I realized what was up, the little boy was hiding behind her. “He’s embarrassed,” the woman told Sophie, still smiling but looking at me with big “can’t you get your kid to shut up” eyes.

I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Sophie, do you like it when people talk a lot about Down syndrome?”

She looked at me and shook her head.

“Well, this little boy doesn’t want you talking about him, either. It’s the same thing!”

I looked at the mom and added quickly, “I know it’s not the same thing.” She just smiled.

At this point the service had ended and everyone was scattering. The woman and her family hustled off. I looked at Deborah and shook my head, horrified.

I had worried that people would stare at Sophie this morning (and I suppose they did, a bit), but she wound up being the starer. Funny, Sophie’s genetically endowed with a kind heart and beyond that, I know she’s a sweet little girl.

But standing there, I realized that’s not the same thing as the Golden Rule — which, as far as I’m concerned, is the best purpose of religion.

Our friends came by the house afterward to eat my overbaked challah and dip apples in honey for a sweet New Year.

I had a lovely time, but couldn’t stop thinking about that boy. Later, Annabelle asked (out of the blue), “Mommy, why does Sophie have so many therapies? It seems like she’s not good at ANYTHING!”

I explained that many things are harder for Sophie, and she has people to help her learn. And thank goodness, I thought to myself, that we have such wonderfully trained and experienced experts to teach Sophie to talk, write, run and jump.

Still,  some things fall to the parents, no matter what, and I know that I’m Sophie’s Golden Rule therapist. I’m just not sure I’m adequately trained.

I have to admit that I’m more than a little proud that Annabelle’s already questioning the highest authority. Because I have no faith (of that variety) myself, I view religion simply as a tool by which you can get others to behave. Clearly, Annabelle doesn’t need that tool.

But maybe Sophie does. Sophie thrives on structure, rules, a plan. Will she need religion to stay on the straight and narrow? If I do introduce her to religion, will that be unfair, since she might completely “get” it?

Am I overreacting to some simple curiousity?

So much for a light-hearted New Year’s celebration.