*With apologies to the lovely Orieyenta.

Back to life, back to reality after a week’s respite at Camp Scottsdale, where the entire Yenta family was spoiled rotten by the two most energetic 60-somethings the world has ever seen. Unfortunately, they rejected the suggestion that we move in permanently. Maybe I was too bossy at the seder. (I apologize again here for calling out a certain family member for snacking off the seder plate; it was disrespectful of me to gasp as if Elijah had wandered in off the patio stark naked looking for a drink. If I see anyone using a yarmulke as a napkin next year, I promise to be more discreet.)

Good lawdy, it’s going to take some time to catch up, but I wouldn’t be a good Yenta if I didn’t at least check in. And I wouldn’t be a bad Jewish mother if I didn’t admit that I dyed a dozen eggs with the children this morning. Before you, uh, crucify me (tee hee hee), know that the kit was half off at the only grocery store open on Easter Sunday in the entire South. Plus, the stripes in my hair need bleaching, and I was just itching to dye something. We hummed “Eliahu Hanavi” while we did it, though. And there were absolutely no pastels involved (the secret’s in the vinegar, just in case you’re feelin’ cross-cultural.)

The Manic Panic-painted eggs on top of El Yenta Man’s refusal to eat fluffy biscuits while snacking on a pork rib last night at a Christian friends’ birthday party (where I was invited to church no less than three times in two hours) surely earns us some Most Disoriented Jews of the Diaspora trophy. Yet our son sang the Four Questions at two seders with nary a stutter and treated a waitress to an explanation of the Five Forbidden Grains when asked whether he wanted a waffle with his eggs. So I guess we’re doing one or two things by the book. Really, we’re not wicked — just simple.