Last week, Jewish people all over the world cleaned out pantries and changed dishes — getting rid of all signs of leavened foods — in pious (and arduous) preparation for Passover, the celebration of the Jews’ exodus from Egypt.

I was busy getting ready, too, trying to figure out how to wrap bacon around matzoh balls and making a playlist in keeping with the theme for my seder this year, “Passover the Musical.”

In the end, the bacon strips were too short, the matzoh balls too big and I couldn’t find the toothpicks. But the mix turned out great — I crowdsourced on Facebook, gathering Passover-inspired suggestions like “Take Me to the River” by Al Green (I went with the Talking Heads version), Lesley Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me,” and “You’ve Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party” by the Beastie Boys. Perfect music for mingling over deviled eggs and seating arrangements, as we managed to cram 33 people, two large dogs and a cat into my tiny backyard on a perfect spring evening.

Sacrilege? Yeah, most of it. But it’s also how I get my family — and certain friends — to participate in Passover without complaint. Previous themes have included “Passover on a Stick” and “Pastel Passover,” but this one was my favorite.

There was bacon and beer but there was also brisket and wine and two kinds of charoset. We said (most of) the prayers and the youngest kid read The Four Questions. We also read passages by David Brooks, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and a favorite student in the writing workshop I’ve taught forever with my dear friend Deborah, who led the seder.

Then there was the music. Anyone brave enough was invited to perform. Ray played Metallica’s “Creeping Death” on the guitar, and even passed out copies of the lyrics so we could all follow along. Deborah’s daughter Anna performed a beautiful song by Debbie Friedman. Annabelle gave Adam Sandler a run for it with an original song she wrote and performed on the ukelele (“P-A-S-S-O-V-E-R — Today is Passover, so shout hurrah”). Then Sophie and Abbie sang.

Sophie had been wandering around all night with her school choir notebook, so I wasn’t surprised when she opened it, but I was shocked when Abbie opened her mouth. Abbie is almost 20, the daughter of one of my oldest and best friends, Trish, and while she’s all grown up and absolutely lovely, I think of Abbie as quite shy — as my flower girl 17 years ago, she all but refused to walk down the aisle. These days she’s quiet and confident, not an attention seeker. But Abbie loves Sophie, and Sophie wanted her to sing, so the two of them offered a beautiful rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.”

And there, under the full moon, after half a glass of wine, I had a religious moment — or as close as I get.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

That’s my kind of prayer. Stevie Nicks is back and forth in interviews over whether she wrote it for her father, but hearing our kids sing it, I knew the song was meant for the parents in the crowd. Earlier in the night, Trish teared up when she saw that Sophie’s now wearing braces. “She looks so grown up!” she said, wiping her eyes. I felt my own well up as Sophie perched on Abbie’s lap and our “little” girls sang, Abbie’s voice clear and beautiful, Sophie’s unmistakably her own.

So what does “Landslide” have to do with Passover? Well, nothing, really. And everything. What is religion if not an attempt to handle the seasons of our lives? Whether it’s heavy-duty prayer in synagogue or some silly twists on tradition in my own backyard, for me it’s about figuring out what our place is in this crazy universe, how we fit in and how we can work to make it a better place. We do that by building our own communities, our congregations, the people who enrich us, educate us, make us better, catch us when we fall. People like Deborah and Trish, Anna and Abbie.

Passover was a big success (if I say so myself), even if we should have had place cards and next year I promise there will be (a lot) more beer. Now I have to figure out what to do about the B’nai Mitzvah, the joint Bat Mitzvah for the girls next year that’s still in its earliest planning stages, mostly because I’ve been stuck trying to figure out the most basic logistics. My Passover seder had all the elements I’m looking for in a celebration of my daughters’ coming of age — some religious education (Annabelle actually did quite a bit of research for her song), good food, good music, some twists on tradition, celebration of heritage, and important people from our lives. (Hopefully we’ll have more seating at the B’nai Mitzvah.)

I know I want the girls to study hard for their B’nai Mitzvah, but just where should that studying take place? I haven’t gone to synagogue regularly since my own Bat Mitzvah, and looking back, the time I spent in temple and religious school was among the emptiest of my life, time spent staring at the clock and wondering why I was bothering, since I’d decided at 7 that I didn’t believe in any of it. I’m jealous of those who do find meaning within the walls of a synagogue, community within a congregation. It’s been tougher to find it outside. But I have found those things in my own way — and I need to remember to hold them close.

I bought myself a knock-off Jadeite cake plate for Easter. And my Passover gift to myself is a promise that I’ll quit feeling guilty about not joining a temple, about not taking the girls to services and religious school. We’ll figure out this B’nai Mitzvah thing on our own terms, terms that make sense to our family, that educate the girls about their heritage and help prepare them to be young women.

As for the particulars, I like said, those have yet to be figured out. But I do hope Abbie will sing “Landslide.”

The other day, my dear (and hilarious) friend Tania responded to an apology-packed email (I had to reschedule a long-planned meeting) with, “Hang in there, remember our people have suffered enough!”

I cracked up. As usual, Tania’s timing is perfect. It’s Passover, the week the Jews celebrate our collective suffering more than any other time of year. A novice might think that the height of suffering is Yom Kippur — the Day of Atonement, when you are expected to fast from sundown to sundown in apology for myriad transgressions — but anyone with that impression has never caught a whiff of gefilte fish on Passover.

To be fair, not everyone hates gefilte fish, which I believe is only a traditional food, not one included in any religious observations. In fact, my friend Todd happily took the second untouched jar home Tuesday night, at the conclusion of what I considered to be a darn successful Passover seder.

Todd deserved the gefilte fish – and in a good way. The guy not only made his own horseradish, HE MADE MATZOH. No, that is not a typo, and for details you can check out his blog.

The homemade matzoh drew whoops from the crowd. It was that kind of night. Instead of lamenting the Jews’ exodus from Egypt (though that was mentioned — and even reenacted in an impromptu skit by the kids, featuring Anna as the Red Sea, Annabelle as the holder of Baby Moses and Sophie as Pharaoh) we celebrated family and friends, toasting with sangria instead of the traditional god-awful Passover wine. (The evening was deemed a success when one guest, even before we’d sat down for the seder, announced, “I’m drunk!”)

I think all 17 guests had a good time, with the possible exception of my father, who complained of a sore butt from sitting for so long even after I rushed to serve the matzoh ball soup in the middle of the seder program.

Todd’s spouse Robrt had a brisket cook-off with my mother (recipes here), I made my first seder matzoh ball soup (from the box, don’t be impressed), we sang happy birthday to party guests turning 12, 70 and 84, and Ray gave a presentation — complete with audio and a reading from The Bible — entitled, “A Heavy Metal Passover.”

Yes, as my friend Kathleen put it the next day, the whole thing was quite “unorthodox.” But if you’ve ever been to a real Passover seder you know how miserable (let’s be honest) that experience can be and frankly, collective suffering aside, I felt I’d personally suffered enough after searching the city of Tempe for kosher wine and matzoh. (Next year I’ll head to Scottsdale.)

I’m glad my father suffered through the evening, because while I have very few memories of religion from childhood — and even fewer involving him — hearing him read a paragraph of the Passover story from the Haggadah (the “official” Passover prayer book, mine was a little non-traditional this year) as we went around the table brought me right back to my Great Aunt Charlotte’s living room, where we celebrated Passover every year when I was a kid. I even had to wipe away a couple of tears. (Same deal when Annabelle read the Four Questions –another seder tradition — albeit in English instead of Hebrew, since we still haven’t gotten around to joining a temple.)

As my dear friend Deborah — pious enough that she was the one chosen to “run” the seder yet cool enough that she named it “Let My People Go Go: A Very Groovy Passover” — put it so wisely the next day, that’s the stuff that’s important.

Oh, and here is a drawing my mom whipped up for the Haggadah that — I swear, Mom — was inadvertently left out.

She had just bitten into a bagel smeared with cream cheese, so Annabelle’s mouth was full when she answered the question, which I didn’t hear but assume was something along the lines of, “Hey, aren’t you Jewish? Why are you eating bread on Passover?”

“Oh, I’m not very Jewish,” Annabelle answered through the cream cheese. She stopped and swallowed, then announced, “I’m only Jewish-ish.”

I have to say, my personal comedy routine didn’t sound as funny, delivered by my 7 year old. 

Now, it’s true. We’re not very Jewish. Sophie wasn’t at the coffee shop with Annabelle and me this particular Saturday morning because she was already done with her ballet class, so my not-very-Jewish-mother took her to the not-very-Jewish country club for a not-very-Jewish Easter party.

It might be true, but I didn’t like hearing my kid say it, and I felt like what I’ve been feeling like a lot lately: a self-loathing Jew.

Could it be (and bear with me here, I smell a tangent coming) that I prefer Easter to Passover simply because Easter offers the forbidden fruit? The idea that whatever’s on someone else’s plate is sure to be tastier, that the grass is always greener, the — you know what I mean.

Thinking about this, I had deja vu, and realized my self-loathing Jew thing is not that different from my Phoenix inferiority complex. Do I hate Phoenix because it’s legitimately loathesome (no culture, too hot, too far from anything remotely worthwhile) or simply because I was born here?

(And here I’m talking strictly about culture, although we could have a big discussion about politics. This place is disgusting! Did you see the story on the front page of the Sunday New York Times, all about states cutting vital services to vulnerable populations, including people with Down syndrome? Did you notice where it was datelined? PHOENIX. That’s right. An entire country, and that story came out of Phoenix. The other news last week: Notre Dame is giving President Obama an honorary degree when he gives the university’s commencement address this spring, but Arizona State University — where Obama’s also schedule to speak — doesn’t think he deserves one. True, I was raised by University of Arizona Wildcats to be rabidly anti-ASU so I wouldn’t take a degree from that place on a bet, but seriously? No honorary degree for Obama? He hasn’t accomplished enough? This place is a hell hole!)  

OK, back to culture. Today, driving to lunch, my colleagues and I were commenting on a new, very large public art installation in downtown Phoenix. I try to be a champion of the local arts scene (which has gotten downright easy — there’s a lot to love), but I had to admit that I think the installation’s pretty ugly.

“Then again,” I added, “if I saw that thing in San Francisco, I know I’d want to know why we didn’t have something so cool in Phoenix.”

(I explored this idea ad naseum in a cover story for Phoenix New Times a while back, http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2005-05-12/news/phoenix-has-an-inferiority-complex/)

I love San Franciso. I love Easter. To be fair, both are undeniably lovable. But both are also undeniably unattainable. I won’t move to San Francisco (can you imagine trying to drive there? and the earthquakes!) any sooner than I’ll convert to Christianity.

So here I am, a self-loathing Jew in a self-loathing town, ashamed by my bad attitude.

Funny, when I look at my kids, the whole self-loathing thing goes away. I am so freaking proud of myself for creating these two amazing, gorgeous little human beings. I stare at them when they are asleep and (when they let me) when they are awake and applaud myself (and Ray, he gets credit, too) heartily.

I’m not sure why my self-loathing doesn’t transfer in that direction, but I’m definitely grateful for it. Now the key is to figure out how to keep Annabelle and Sophie from falling into my self-loathing trap. 

Number One, stop complaining about being Jewish. Number Two, stop complaining about being from Phoenix.

I think I can handle the first. The second will be tougher. But I’m on the right path, I know. (And hold on, here comes another tangent.)

Yesterday afternoon I paid a visit to one of my favorite Phoenicians, Georganne, who runs one of my favorite retail shops in Phoenix (and on the planet).

The store is called Frances — named for Georganne’s grandmother, not the badger, but it’s a lovely coincidence, don’t you think? If you live in Phoenix, visit Frances in the inside-out strip mall on the northwest corner of Central and Camelback. Otherwise, head to the web: www.francesvintage.com

I’m quite certain I’ve already written about Georganne and her fabulous “Love Phoenix or Leave Phoenix” bumper stickers.  She’s from here, too, but she loves it and with her store, she’s making Phoenix a place for other people to love.

I do love Phoenix when I’m at Frances. Or maybe I just love Frances. In any case, take a peek at what I bought on the 50% off, post-Easter sale table, and tell me it’s not some sort of a sign:

A sign of what, I’m not 100 percent sure. But tonight I’ll pack up the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid and carefully tuck away the Easter Chick in a Party Hat and the singing matzoh man my mom brought to the seder.

That’s the last holiday Rubbermaid til Halloween, which makes me sad. And maybe a little relieved.

In any case, there are birthday parties to be planned.

I kept all the photos out on the mantle, but the cards and other random Grandma-ish stuff (a page from Annabelle’s journal, a bracelet she’d given Annabelle, the empty hair cream container she also gave her and a bunch of condolence cards) are headed for the Grandma Rubbermaid.

I mean that in the nicest possible way. Having a personal Rubbermaid, in my world, is about as good as it gets. My MIL is the first person I can think of to get her own; it seemed like a good, safe way to store the stuff that keeps landing on the kitchen table, via my father in law — costume jewelry, books, clothes. I don’t want anything to get ruined or lost. I did have to give Grandma’s sewing machine its own separate Rubbermaid, til we can find a place for it.

Speaking of plastic storage, the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid came out last night, now that the winter-to-summer clothing exchange has been completed. And with the Grandma shrine gone, we needed some cheer. Easter is less than two weeks away, after all. Passover, too.

Passover’s a tough holiday. A little too down-to-business to be much fun, afikomen aside. So we focused on Easter last night. Technically, Easter’s about as tough as a holiday gets, but the trimmings are the best.

As usual, I’d completely forgotten what was in the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid, so it was like Christmas: a collection of vintage (allegedly) bunny, birdie and flower cupcake toppers; cute napkins and paper plates from Target; lots of bunny ears; pink paper “grass” still in the bag; and several baskets, along with the requisite holiday DVDs and videos.

I’ve never seen this before, but the “Peter Cottontail” DVD actually broke IN HALF, while in the Rubbermaid.  (This could be because, um, I didn’t actually put it back inside the case when I tossed it in. Lesson learned.) Annabelle was very interested in this (as she was in the Rubbermaid, asking, “Mama, what is a Rubber Maid?”) and announced on the spot that she’s now collecting broken DVDs and CDs.

So hey, if you have any, send them our way.

I also found a Ziploc filled with paper butterflies in various pastels, which I placed around the framed photos on the mantle. I added one picture that had been part of the shrine: a beautiful snapshot of Grandma and Annabelle, which my mother in law had enlarged and framed, shortly after she learned of her diagnosis last summer. Til she died, it was on Annabelle’s dresser. Now it’s in the living room, in an appropriate place of honor.

“You know why Grandma isn’t really gone?” Annabelle asked last night. “Because I have this! This is very special to me!” She hugged the frame tightly, then gazed at the picture.

She paused. “Grandma didn’t spend a lot of time with Sophie,” she said matter-of-factly.

It’s true that there is no corresponding photograph of Sophie and Grandma.

I do have a similarly lovely, similarly enlarged and framed photo of myself and Sophie, which my mother in law took at Sophie’s pre-school graduation and presented to me as a gift.

But there isn’t one of Sophie and Grandma. That doesn’t tell the truth, though. The truth is that my mother in law spent a tremendous amount of time with both girls — she babysat regularly early on in their lives (more than my own parents — by a longshot) and even in the last few months, made sure to arrange for special, separate play dates for just Sophie and Grandma.

I will say that both Grandma and Gaga forged particularly special relationships with Annabelle. I don’t know if that’s because she’s the first born granddaughter (I am for my generation, and I know I got special treatment) or for other reasons. I guess time will tell — with my own mother, anyway.

I think even Annabelle could sense that it was an awkward topic, and we both struggled to change the subject. I let her stay up to watch “It’s the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown.”

I’ve always been a big fan of “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” The only part I really remembered about the Easter special is that wonderful bit where the Christmas display is already out at the local department store at Easter time.

But if you haven’t watched this one lately, make sure you do. It’s pretty special. My favorite part, I think, is where Woodstock decorates his new birdhouse all groovy.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Peanuts, particularly Linus, since we both have blankets. I do recognize that Charles M. Schulz’s work is pretty retro and slow in a way that doesn’t appeal so much to kids today, so I try not to get bummed out when the girls stop watching halfway through the Thanksgiving or Christmas specials. (Remember how exciting it was, when they came on just once a year?!)

But last night Annabelle was right there with me. It was fabulous.

The Peanuts just don’t come up much in conversation around our house, which is why the following story strikes me as so odd. I have to tell it.

I’m sure it’s a byproduct of middle age (am I really middle aged? how can I be middle aged? I’m 8 years old, wearing my turquoise Snoopy outfit to third grade!) but people are dying right and left. A while back, a dear friend’s favorite cousin passed away. He traveled to the Bay Area for a service, and afterward, I asked how it went.

It was okay, he said, but Charles M. Schulz’s widow insisted on having the memorial service at the museum.

HUH? I didn’t realize that my friend’s cousin was a curator at Schulz’s museum. (I didn’t know there was a museum honoring Schulz, for that matter.)

Yeah, my friend said. His cousin did things like travel to Denver to oversee the removal of a wall from a house Schulz lived in before his characters were famous — he’d painted the characters on a wall, and his cousin made sure the wall got safely to Calfornia then made sure 10 layers of paint were carefully removed to reveal the characters.

COOL.

Be careful what you think about, people, that’s all I’m saying, because a few hours after that conversation I was in the car with the girls and out of the blue — I swear, I hadn’t mentioned the topic, the conversation had taken place at work, not home –  Annabelle piped up from the back seat and asked, “Hey, mama, where do the Peanuts characters live?”

Any other day, I would have been stumped. But this day, I was able to tell her: Santa Rosa, California, in a museum we can go to someday.

My friend says there’s even an ice skating rink on the property. Schulz liked to ice skate, just like his characters.