Bob Schwartz

It is Passover, which means no bread for eight days. The story says that traditional Jewish ancestors couldn’t let bread rise in the wilderness, leaving them to bake dry flatbread. Leaving us, by way of acknowledging the tradition, to buy boxes of dry flatbread—matzo—and to avoid eating bread.

On the first night of Passover, tidying the kitchen, I looked at our toaster. Its four wide slots stood ready to receive whatever baked goods might need hot wire treatment. Bread, bagels, English muffins, other national muffins.

But no, not this morning, or for some mornings to come. The toaster is temporarily useless and lonely. I had never considered trying to toast matzo, for good reason. Not only is it already toasted, but it slips right through slots made for much wider slices.

Sorry toaster. Unlike other kitchen gadgets that don’t get daily or even weekly attention, you are there serving us almost every day. But not this day. Not tomorrow. Not this week.

We will be back together soon. Maybe I will pop you down once in a while anyway, just to let you know that you are not forgotten. Happy Passover, my trusty friend.