By Sophia Levitas-Goren

I may side-eye you when you go to the kosher section on any other day — you don’t want to wait in line at plat, I get it. But this night, rather this week, is different from all other nights and all other weeks. These eight days I am requesting that all of you non-jews go eat at literally any other section. Let’s be fucking for real, do you really want to eat matzo spanakopita? I can promise you, it is not that good!!!!

Why must you steal our pickles? They are not even that good! Do you yearn for our charoset, which symbolizes the brick and mortar the Hebrews used in Egypt all those years ago? Have you tried the maror, aka the horseradish? Do give it a taste, it represents the bitterness of slavery! You yearn for our coconut macaroons? For our hard-boiled eggs? You desire our flourless chocolate cake (it is pretty good)? Well guess what!!!! YOU CAN’T FUCKING HAVE ITTTTT!!!!!!! I will throw pieces of matzo at you whilst you attempt to take my passover glop. 

Picture this:

I wait behind someone who has worn their church’s themed shirt multiple times at the kosher section, knowing assuredly that they are not Jewish. Their plate has a burger, decked in bun and bacon from the grill. I tap my foot loudly and obnoxiously; I am filled with rage and running on caffeine and quinoa. Someone is going to feel the wrath of my ancestors, and it will be this non-jewish person who is taking my overly salted matzo ball soup. They put two pieces of the bread of affliction on their plate; it touches the hameitzy, swineful burger. The spirit of Moshe then imbues me with his power — I command the space lasers unto the person in front of me and I wish for his dissolvement. He bursts into dust. Moshe leaves my body. I put two overly salted matzo balls into my bowl. I walk away with a pep in my step.