How Manischewitz became my cure for the coronavirus blues | Perspective

It was week No. 2 of the newsroom’s work-from-home order.

I was bedridden with what I thought was COVID-19, clocking 14-hour workdays horizontally, and on this afternoon, calming a string of forlorn and exasperated colleagues.

At 4:47 p.m., I laugh-cried my way downstairs searching for something to drink.

Let me say here that while I very much enjoy going out with friends to imbibe, I do not drink at home alone. Which is why when I opened the cabinet where liquor is kept, there was only the Fireball from my last Halloween party, and a half-finished bottle of Manischewitz from Passover circa 2018.

I grabbed my grandmother’s stemware and poured one to the top, wondered for two seconds whether opened screw-top wine gets better or fatal with age, and took my first sip. It was... not bad!

For those of you not familiar with Manischewitz wine, first know that many Jews rank it with gefilte fish and chopped liver. In other words, they only consume it because they think there’s a commandment or something.

I, on the other hand, have always delighted in the supersweet concoction, and because the kosher wine scene has expanded over my lifetime, I tend to park the Manischewitz next to my plate while everyone else goes for the more sophisticated bottles.

Nonetheless, I hadn’t managed to drink it outside the week of Passover.

Until the latest plague.

After I demolished that vintage bottle, I figured I could use more. WineChateau.com offered the quickest delivery, and for six, I’d save 35 cents a bottle. Deal!

The days since have continued their whirlwind frenzy, starting the minute I open my eyes (but who is really sleeping these days, anyway) and continuing four to seven Zoom meetings into the evening. As I also manage to single mother my 8-year-old who, just like a racehorse, needs to be exercised, I find myself checking the time earlier and earlier each day to see if it’s Manischewitz o’clock.

And that’s because, although I can manage a grateful mindset once in a while — I am employed, my child is calling this “the best weeks of his life,” my family remains healthy, knock on wood — I am so tired with sadness, so impatient with the unknown, so desperate for comfort. But why has Manischewitz become my coping mechanism?

Then Passover came Wednesday, and my girlfriends were sending a flurry of texts wishing one another a chag sameach before our seders started. “I already had four cups of Manischewitz,” wrote Karey, to which I shared my new daily habit. The backlash!

“I generally don’t like it either,” she replied. “But it tastes like Passover to me.”

Yes, exactly, I thought. It tastes like Passover.

And Passover — the gathering, the discussion, the singing, my family, the rituals — is my favorite holiday. The way you can always count on it to be the same every year but also learn something new. The way you can always relate to finding freedom from the things that afflict you.

And this year, the ability to hold a tradition during nontraditional times was its own balm. I sat with my son and his father at a very modest table we whipped up between meetings and childcare and deadlines that included my favorite flavors: the horseradish, the brisket, the nuts-and apple-mix of charoset, and of course, the Manischewitz. We weren’t with our usual crew, enjoying our normal lives, but for a moment, I understood the concept of comfort food in a way I never truly grasped before.

We took a walk in the neighborhood afterward, my son kicking his soccer ball ahead while I marveled at the heavens so beautiful, so unreflective of the reality below.

Will we survive this thing intact? That night, I kissed my child’s soft cheek goodnight, walked back down the stairs, and poured myself another.