This time last year I was suffering through Passover in Paris, a not insubstantial test of willpower in the land of perfect bread (which I am pleased to report ended successfully, with a rather wonderful meal of homemade pasta and good company).
So what do I do as an encore this year? I fly to Texas on day seven of the observance, and am forced to break Passover on the plane, with some half-day-old bread purchased on a business lunch and sheepishly carted around Dallas in the back seat of a colleague’s car.
Next year I may just lock myself in a bakery midweek. Probably wouldn’t be much more exasperating.