How Did Our Mother Do It?

A tin can, holding the precious milk, stands proudly beside the items my father just brought home. I gently push it further onto the table—its precarious position near the edge could spell disaster. One slight nudge, and we would lose our beloved Maza Cacao.

How did our mother do it?

My sister, Mona, and I are on the phone, discussing the menu for the upcoming Pessach meals.

What did we have?

We begin listing the essentials our father had carefully gathered from Zimmerman, the only kosher store in Vienna:
•   Milk
•   Maza meal
•   Machine Maza
•   Margarine
•   Oil
•   Cocoa powder
•   Tea
•   Rosemary chocolate
•   Sugar
•   Salt

The rest we bought from Rebenwurzel Butcher and Naschmarkt, a kind of farmers’ market:
•   Tons of potatoes and eggs
•   Chicken and Beinfleisch (a type of flanken)

We drank water, and toward the end of the holiday, we treated ourselves to Sodawasser.

But the most sacred item of all was Shmura Maza, handmade by our father. These irregularly shaped, invaluable pieces were treated like Meissen porcelain. Only he was allowed to handle them. They sat atop the credenza, reigning over the dining room as if they were royalty.

And there you have it—that’s what we ate growing up in the sixties.

Fast forward to today.

I glance at my list, impossibly long, as if I were a king reading a declaration to his people in the Renaissance era.

Why do we need all of this now?

Mona and I can proudly say that we never felt deprived during Pessach. We were the happiest children, blessed with the most meaningful memories.

But times have changed. It’s a different era.

It’s almost as if, in my childlike imagination, I had envisioned Gan Eden—a paradise of abundance. Shelves bend under the weight of endless kosher-for-Pessach foods. Snacks and sweets come in every imaginable color—so many shades that they had to invent new ones.

And the greatest indulgence of all? As much Shmura Maza as our hearts desire.

Now, in my hands, I hold a brand-new Pessach cookbook, its hardcover pristine. Beside me, a tall stack of carefully collected recipes teeters on my small table. A large wall calendar lies within reach, ready to be filled with meal plans for the holiday’s first days.

But then I pause.

I drift back to childhood, to the simple joy of Pessach meals. I call Mona again.

“Do you remember the polka-dot Milchig cup, filled with chocolate milk and Maza?”

“Do I remember?” she says. “I dream of it.”

Every dish, every cup—etched into our memories, their aromas still lingering in our minds.

How did Mami do it?

Every year, we ask the same question.

Just like on Seder night:

“Ma Nishtana HaLailah HaZeh?”

What makes this night different from all other nights?