The kids' table

This year, Passover was early and smaller. Instead of the big Sebastopol gathering of three families and a host of friends that we all honored for almost a decade, the second generation kept it going this spring in a quiet way: The comfortable living room of two old friends from past seders and years of interconnection.

Instead of sitting down with 25 or 30 people at a sprawling, gracefully laid table on the deck of a house overlooking the valley, the eight of us curled up on pillows and papasan chairs at a low coffee table with tea lights and IKEA wine glasses, creating a new version of an easy, familiar ritual. Miriam got a pottery mug of water. We put Elijah's cup over on the bookshelf so nobody would drink it by accident.

We kept the potluck tradition alive, salmon and asparagus, a moment in the sunshine on the deck to wash and dry each other's hands. The haggadah was a little shorter, the wine went a little more quickly. We pooled our memories to come up with all the tunes, the readings, and the usual tangled, interesting discussions that religion inspires in mostly secular, political, skeptical twenty and thirtysomethings with a deep respect for their past. The warmth was the same as always.

But we did eat brownies at the end. Shhhh. Don't tell the rebbe. They were so good.

eliyahu in stereo