Relationship stress test

Context is everything, which is why you need to know this before hearing my side of the story. 

For the past nine months I have been on a strict calorie deficit. Yes, assisted by a GLP-1. No, I’m not hiding it. 

My routine is simple. Up at 04:00. Oats. Coffee. Discipline. Repeat. And then, at night, a small act of rebellion. Three pieces of 70% dark chocolate. Three neat, controlled, dignified squares. 

I didn’t think this was controversial. But I was wrong. 

“Howard,” my wife said, walking into our room with the tone of someone about to introduce new legislation, “we are getting the house cleaned for Pesach, and I need you to not bring anything chametz upstairs.” 

“Pesach?” I asked, genuinely confused. “In three weeks?” 

“Yes,” she said. “I want to be organised early.” 

This is the moment when a wiser man would nod, agree, and live to fight another day. But somewhere deep inside me, the teenager who once argued about pretty much everything woke up. 

“Seriously?” I said. “I have deprived myself of anything remotely enjoyable for months. I don’t think three cubes of dark chocolate are going to bring about a halachic crisis.” 

“Fine,” she replied calmly. And defeated. “Then we’ll start cleaning later. When you’re ready.” 

And just like that, my chocolate had become a delaying factor in the redemption of our home. 

Our forebears were enslaved for hundreds of years. They built pyramids. They escaped in the dead of night. They stood at the edge of a raging sea and walked forward in faith, while a murderous army chased them down. 

And us? We’re brought to a complete standstill by three squares of Lindt. 

We’re often told that the secret to Jewish survival is Shabbat. Others will argue it’s persecution, or antisemitism, or resilience. 

All valid. But I have a different theory. It’s Pesach. 

Not the festival. Not even the story. It’s the preparation. 

Pesach preparation is Judaism’s ultimate relationship stress test. It’s where love, patience, history, and unresolved childhood dynamics all come together in a single, highly flammable environment. 

Take, for example, my wife’s family and what can only be described as “Mom’s Soup Pot”. 

An ordinary piece of stainless steel. No gold plating. No diamonds. No visible connection to Sinai. And yet, this pot has the power to destabilise highly functional adults. 

Who has it? Who used it last? Was it kashered properly? How many people can it feed? And perhaps most dangerously, who deserves it this year? 

Out of curiosity (and what I thought was initiative), I found a very similar pot online. R895. Delivery tomorrow. Free if you’re a Takealot member. Problem solved. 

I was about to hit the “Buy it now” button when I mentioned it to my wife. The look I received suggested  I had just proposed outsourcing a family heirloom to a stranger in Belarus. 

“So male,” she mumbled.  “No-one asked you to solve this.” 

And just like that, I was no longer a helpful husband. I was a disruptor of tradition. A man who didn’t understand that the chicken soup pot is not about the pot. Or the soup. And definitely not about the chicken. 

It’s about history. Memory. Continuity. Identity. And, apparently, seating arrangements for 23 people. 

So I apologised. Properly. With feeling. For my reckless attempt to introduce logic into a clearly non-logical situation. 

And that is what Pesach teaches you. 

Not just how to clean or to avoid chametz. But how to navigate the ecosystem of family, tradition, and emotion. 

Pesach preparation teaches restraint. It teaches patience. And acceptance. It teaches that no matter how early you start, it’s never early enough. 

And it teaches surrender. Because sometimes the correct response is not to win the argument, but to survive it. 

As for my three pieces of chocolate? Let’s just say they’re now enjoyed downstairs. Like a fugitive in the night. Which, come to think of it, is probably the most authentic Pesach experience of all.