The Passover season is once again upon us. Spring is in the air, the dawn chorus is back to wake us up, and fair breezes liberate us from the doldrums of winter. There’s a reason the expression for not being yet out of the woods is “s’iz nokh vayt tsu Péysekh” (literally, it’s still a long way to Passover).
While Passover is the holiday in which we celebrate the liberation from slavery in Egypt, some are not liberated from slaving away. Readying a house for Passover is no mean feat. A suitable expression for “to work one’s butt off” (you’ll pardon me) would be “árbetn vi a yídene far Péysekh” (literally, to work like a woman before Passover).
So let’s take a tour of the seder plate and see what wisdom it inspires. Obviously there’s no seder without “mátse” (matzah). So it’s no wonder that matzah figures in a number of expressions, most having to do with its appearance. “Káylekhdik vi mátse” — as round as matzah — refers to the traditional shape of the matzah, while “geshtúplt vi mátse” — as pockmarked as matzah — refers to the holes that perforate its surface. Matzah, moreover, is not an especially nutritive (let alone flavorful) foodstuff. “Vos klekt far a zélner a mátse?” (Is matzah enough for a soldier?) is one way of saying that insufficient fare is on offer.
Interestingly, matzah also features in Jewish thieves’ cant. If someone “shart aróp a mátse” (literally, scrapes off a matzah) it means that he is pilfering something. And in this particular argot, a “mátse” is another word for a coat. This likely derives from the covering that conspicuously wraps the ceremonial three matzos during the Passover seder. Finally, according to Siegmund Wolf, in the German thieves’ cant the word “matzeponim” means a face that is pitted from acne or one that is covered with freckles.
As long as we’re talking about matzah, the broken middle matzah — the “afikóymen” (afikoman) — figures large in the Yiddish linguistic imagination. A particular kind of hunger is described as “húngerik vi a yid tsum afikóymen” (as hungry as a Jew for the afikoman). While it is more common to describe a useless solution as helping like a bandaid for a cough, one can also say “helfn vi an afikóymen tsu kadókhes” (helping like an afikoman for a fever). But on a lighter note, since the kids hunt for the afikoman and ransom it so the seder can be concluded, we ask: “Velkhn gánev tshépet men nit? Dem vos gánvet dem afikóymen” — What thief don’t you nab? The one who steals the afikoman.
Next on the plate is the “béytse,” the Hebrew word for egg. While it is used for that particular element on the plate, the word’s only other consistent use in Yiddish is with the meaning testicle. “Kárpes” is the celery. This word cannot mean celery other than this bland addition to the seder plate. Celery is “selérye”; the word “kárpes” does, however, appear in the expression “kárpes un kíslitse” (literally, celery and soured apples) where it means a wide variety of odds and ends. Interestingly, another expression from Passover — “shar-yerókes,” the various herbs eaten all year round as recounted in the Four Question — can also have the same meaning.
Moving on, the shank bone is called the “zróye,” again employing the standard Hebrew work. Likely based on the rather pathetic look of what appears on some seder plates, a “fardárte zróye” (dried-out shank bone) refers to a particularly scrawny person. There is probably no more distinctive dish, nor one with such a distinctive variety of recipes, than the “kharóyses” (haroset), meant to represent the mud or mortar for the bricks made by the Israelite slaves for the Egyptians. (Incidentally, “firn shtroy keyn Mitsráyim,” literally carrying straw to Egypt, is the Yiddish expression for carrying coals to Newcastly, probably a reference to one of the essential ingredients of these bricks.) Given the beloved nature of the dish, it is no surprise to find the expression “táyer vi kharóyses” — as dear as haroset. That said, sometimes we have other things on our minds, so if we say “er meynt nit di kharóyses nor di árbe kóyses” (he doesn’t mean the haroset but rather the four cups of wine) it’s clear this person is more a lover of Purim than Passover.
Finally there is “mórer” (maror), the bitter herb, which is more often than not represented by horseradish. This word is not usually used to refer specifically to horseradish — in Yiddish that would be “khreyn.” Rather it is used to emphasize bitterness, in reference to the experience of bondage. As an expression, then, “bíter vi mórer” (as bitter as maror) makes perfect sense. But there is another bit of folk wisdom deriving from this element of the seder plate: “S’iz a mítsve tsu esn mórer” (It’s a commandment/mitzvah to eat maror). Exodus (12:8) enjoins eating the roasted lamb “with matzah and maror,” so it is quite literally a commandment. But the phrase is a way of expressing a resignation toward whatever difficulties life throws in one’s way.
But it is my hope that no such difficulties are thrown in your way this Passover season as I wish you “a kóshen péysekh.” And as always, “léyent gezúnterhéyt” — read it in good health.
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