As Reform Jews residing in Berkeley, my husband, Barrie, and I follow our own nouvelle variation of the dietary laws. We shun pork products and shellfish, although we’re not averse to mixing milk and meat in the same meal.
During Passover, this relaxed approach to kashrut translates to avoiding anything obviously made with flour or leavening, while eating lots of matzah. Even though we’re not Passover purists, family trips during the eight-day festival are challenging: We struggle to adhere to the no bread, cereal, pasta or pizza rule while our four kids never feel quite full.
So it was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that we set out during Passover 2004 — which happened to coincide with the kids’ spring break — on a car tour of the Grand Circle, a necklace of stunning national parks in the high desert of Arizona and Utah.
Our jumping-off point was Huntington Beach, where we spent the first seder with Barrie’s parents. Before taking off from there, we stocked up on several boxes of matzah, which the Southern California markets hand out virtually for free during this time of year.
The first half of the trip, matzah with butter was a top seller with all four kids — for our two sons, then ages 14 and 12, as well as our 7-year-old twin daughters. Toward the end, the kids grew tired of that combo, so we graduated to matzah with cheese, and once, one of the girls tried matzah with strawberry yogurt on top, which elicted a chorus of “yechs” from the rear seat where her two brothers sat.
As we passed through the stark and alien landscape, our Passover resolve was put to the test. Several of the moderately priced hotels sweetened the deal by offering an “expanded” continental breakfast, which translated to everything from waffles to sweet rolls dripping with glaze. It was pure torture for the kids.
At restaurants in the tiny towns on the fringes of the national parks, we would firmly tell the waitress to “hold the bread,” usually to no avail. Our meals would come with thick slices of white bread slathered with butter. My younger son, Zach, would hold a fragrant slab close to his nose. Once, he actually buried his face in a whole loaf of homemade bread delivered to our table, fresh from the oven. But not a morsel did he eat.
As is always the case when we travel, I kept my ears cocked for the sounds of Hebrew. Sure enough, we ran into Israeli tourists at a hotel just outside of the Grand Canyon, and were a bit taken aback when we spied them piling their breakfast plates with waffles and other chametz. A couple of days later, I struck up a conversation with another Israeli couple at Bryce Canyon. “It’s so difficult to travel during Pesach,” I complained, yearning for a nod of recognition. Instead, the Israeli woman seemed surprised that someone would bother following the Passover dietary laws. “Are you Orthodox?” she asked.
By the tine we rolled into Green River, a town outside of Canyonlands National Park, our matzah supply had dipped to dangerously low levels. What were the chances of finding matzah here in the heart of Mormon country, I wondered. We located a promising-looking market, and after looking around, I asked the clerk if they carried matzah. The answer was what I expected — no.
Our wanderings through the high desert eventually led us to Zion — Zion National Park, that is. And it was here, at a restaurant in Springdale just outside the park’s entrance, that we experienced a salvation of sorts. After our young waitress (her badge indicated that her name was Celeste) put in our order, she returned to our table and inquired, “Can I ask why you’re not having bread?” “It’s because of Passover,” I answered. “I thought so!” she said with glee.
Celeste proceeded to tell us that her devout Christian sect likewise observes a spring week without bread. We were all stunned, particularly my sons. “So, have you found anywhere to buy matzah?” I ventured. She responded that she makes her own each year, using a family recipe consisting of flour, cottage cheese and butter.
My boys’ mouths fell wide open in disbelief. Cottage cheese and butter? Talk about unclear on the concept!
For some reason, now that we were near the end of our road trip, I felt the urge for a beer. At first it didn’t occur to me that this would be a breach of Passover, or that my request would offend Celeste. But when she didn’t bring my ice-cold mug, it dawned on me that she was perhaps horrified that a true Jew would drink something made with yeast during this holy season. Clearly, Celeste was saving me from myself.
We officially ran out of matzah about an hour out of Las Vegas, dumping our last empty box during a pit stop at a mini-mart in Mesquite, Nev., with 24 hours to go until the curtain would fall on Passover 2004. Walking down Las Vegas’ neon-pulsing Strip shortly after, we spotted boxes of matzah meal in a deli that was closed for the evening. Yes, we were definitely back in civilization.
Ironically, we spent the last night of the annual commemoration of the Jewish people’s exodus from Egypt back in Egypt, at Vegas’ pyramid-shaped Luxor Resort and Casino. The next morning, we decided to forgo the all-you-can-eat buffet in favor of the more controlled menu of the coffee shop. When we ordered our Passover staple, omelets and scrambled eggs, the waitress asked if we wanted toast. When I answered, “No, thank you,” she began to insist.
Feeling weary, and with my guard down after our long journey, I decided to tell the truth. “We’re observing Passover,” I explained, expecting a blank stare in return. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she replied. “Do you want me to bring some matzah?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “That would be incredible. We’ve been searching for matzah for the past week!” I said. The waitress explained that although she had grown up in the Philippines and was half-Filipino and half-Chinese, her immigration to the United States had been sponsored by an American Jewish family. At that point she chanted the HaMotzi blessing in near-perfect Hebrew. We were floored.
Somehow, the encounter at the Luxor’s coffee shop was the perfect end to our journey. Sometimes, reinforcement of our beliefs and practices comes from unexpected places. In this case, it came from a young, blonde waitress named Celeste in Springdale, Utah, population 500, who felt compelled to remind me in not so many words of what Passover is all about. And it came again from an immigrant waitress who turned a Las Vegas coffee shop into an oasis in the desert.
Brenda Kahn is a freelance writer living in Berkeley.