Life and death, suffering and joy, from generation to generation. Plus food.

I made a magnificent matzo ball soup for our Passover Seder in 1985 but, oh, what became of it. When the time finally arrived to serve the meal, I lifted the lid to discover that someone had added an entire box of egg noodles because, it was explained to me while I wept, a child at the table would not eat soup without them.

The noodles were not kosher for Passover, the eight-day holiday when we eat only unleavened bread and certain other foods to commemorate the Israelites' flight from slavery in Egypt, when they had no time for their bread to rise.

Said egg noodles had also soaked up all of the broth.

The consensus was to eat the soup, and that's all I remember. Ever since, however, I have kept a record of where was I on the first or second night of Passover, who else was there, what we ate and anything out of the ordinary.

I jot these notes in a well-worn copy of "The Jewish Holiday Cookbook," by Gloria Kaufer Greene, which opens easily to the most used recipes and bears the stains of wonderful dishes prepared over the years, and some that didn't turn out so well, according to my notes.

Passover is the most celebrated of Jewish holidays, even more than the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and the one most centered in the home, as opposed to the synagogue.

"Seder" means order, and we read from a book called the Haggadah, which provides the order. Every year we recall the escape from bondage, the 10 plagues that persuaded Pharaoh to let us go (even though he changed his mind and set his troops off in hot pursuit, only to drown after Charlton Heston, er, Moses parted the waters of the Red Sea to allow the Israelites to make it across). The evening is filled with stories, blessings and song.

Each year we remember that we do not celebrate the deaths of the Egyptians who drowned, because they were God's people, too. Each year we remember those enslaved today, either literally or by laws that make them second-class citizens.

Telling the story can be tricky, however. The year our Chinese friends, escapees from the Tiananmen disaster, joined us, they stirred uncomfortably as we sang the traditional song, "Chad Gadya," a sort of Rube Goldberg tune that mentions killing a "kid." How relieved they were to learn that in English, "kid" also means "goat."

As a toddler, my daughter Miriam feared the song, "Dayeinu" (die-aynoo), which means "it would have been enough," because she thought it was about death.

Then there was the Year of the Passover Miracle. As I attempted to put several batches of matzo balls into the refrigerator, the container slipped, sending them plopping to the floor -- all but 13, the exact number who would be attending my Seder. That same year, a camera captured all seven children in attendance sitting comfortably on one sofa. They are now studying around the world, with only two left to be launched.

In the Jewish tradition of welcoming the stranger, and the Passover mandate to invite all who are hungry, I've had up to 18 people in my -- now our -- smallish townhouse. In some dark years, my daughter and I gratefully accepted invitations extended by others. This year we will remember two beloved friends who once sat at our table and have passed away since last year. But we will also welcome newcomers.

The day of our Seder is my favorite day of the year. It encompasses everything about life and death, generation to generation, pathos and joy, freedom, and the warmth of friends and family celebrating as one. I cherish the memories of Seders as a kid (the human kind), a student, a single, married, with youngsters who acted out the plagues with plastic props of frogs and ping-pong balls representing rain.

With Miriam headed for college in the fall, we two will work like a well-oiled machine to prepare our favorite dishes from around the world, the tried and true recipes perfected over the years, for her last Seder as a "child."

Her one request: "Mom, please don't make that carrot and fruit thing."

I won't. I don't need my notes to remember that I didn't really care for it either.

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Leslie Martin is an editor and public relations consultant. She lives in Mendota Heights.

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