They say that the only certainties in life are death and taxes. But that night, as I sat around the seder table—single, thirty, and once again eating a dinner of crackers and four glasses of wine—I started to think that maybe the biggest inevitability is monotony. I couldn’t help but wonder: How is this night different from all other nights?
After dunking my parsley in the salt water for the second time that evening, I was reminded of Samantha’s monologue on the pleasures of polyamory. Was it possible that she was right? Does there come a point when “the one” turns into “the two”? It got me thinking: Why is it that only on Passover are we encouraged to double-dip?
It turns out matzah wasn’t the only thing that didn’t rise that night. But in today’s sex-obsessed culture, were we overlooking sad little flatbreads for the everything bagels of the world? I mean, why is it that on all other nights, we indulge in tall, beefy hunks of sourdough—and only tonight, we’re suddenly gaga for the flimsy stuff?