The Brisket, the Guilt, and What We Feel Together on Passover

The Mindset Shift Hiding in Every Brisket Panic and Passover Table

It’s funny how guilt and ritual tend to sneak up on you, even when you’re a thousand miles from the table. That’s the thing about a mindset shift. It rarely shows up with fanfare. They arrive in small, absurd, and beautifully human moments.

This Passover came and went. Like clockwork, I didn’t make it to a seder. No four questions. No plagues. Not even a bite of matzo.

Instead, I got a FaceTime call from my dad and his new partner, Cindy, asking me to coach them through their first brisket. By that point, it was their fourth call of the week and each one carrying more anxiety than the last.

It’s their first Passover together in their new home and their new marriage, and Cindy’s making her first-ever holiday brisket. True to form, the anxiety has reached Larry David levels. This brisket is no longer just brisket. It’s a referendum on their union.

The Brisket Hotline

The call began with formality: “Okay Stephen, Cindy and I are both here. Now tell us what to do.” Apparently, I’ve become the de facto brisket guru, a title I didn’t ask for and one I’m wildly unqualified to hold, save for the fact that my late mother once made an exceptional version.

Her ghost, it seems, now hovers over the roasting pan.

The debate raged on: brine or no brine? What temperature? How long in the oven? Leave it on the counter or stick it in the fridge? There was even a nostalgic mention of Coca-Cola as a stand-in for beef stock. But BBQ sauce? That’s where I drew the line. I mean, come on, tell me you’re a shiksa without telling me you’re a shiksa. Google had weighed in. So had cousin Susan, cousin Paul, maybe even Ina Garten.

Yet somehow, I was the one carrying the emotional weight of whether this brisket would pass the mustard. My forehead creased. Cold sweats returned. All the Jewish guilt and brisket-fueled anxiety set in like muscle memory. It’s like that scene from The Godfather III when Pacino says, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

But there was an opportunity too, a mindset shift in disguise. Not a religious awakening, but a personal reckoning. Of legacy, of love, of brisket.

Gefilte Fish and the Absurdity of Ritual

And while we’re on the topic, can we talk about gefilte fish? A dish so polarizing it deserves its own diplomatic summit. The gelatinous spectacle sits there on the seder plate like a dare. You either love it or recoil in horror. There is no middle ground.

The thing is I’m not really here to talk about fish balls. I’m 8,000 miles away from my family, living in Vietnam. I didn’t go to a seder. I didn’t light a single candle.

And yet, somehow, I had the most Jewish night of the year.

The Most Jewish Night of the Year Without the Seder

That morning, there was an awkward encounter at the beach with friends we’re starting to realize we’re growing apart from. Cue the spiral of anxiety, grief, and silent recalibrating that usually kicks in around the third glass of Manischewitz.

The middle of the day brought its own comedy of errors: a man peeing in the bushes next to my seat at the bakery, a stray dog leaping onto my motorbike like it had somewhere to be, and a delivery man—who’d been circling our block for days—finally screaming into the void and banging on our iron gate over a package we didn’t know was coming and definitely weren’t home to receive.

Later that evening, Rachel and I anxiously waited for news that our friend might be going into labor—only to see a reel of her husband climbing a coconut tree barefoot to fetch water. On the very day she was due.

So maybe we didn’t really celebrate Passover. But maybe we did. Because all the emotions were there. The guilt and confusion. The hope and yes, the brisket.

The Annual Moment of Jewish Longing

And every year, for the last five years, I find myself in the same comical moment: “Well, here we are again. It’s Passover. We didn’t do that seder we promised ourselves we’d do. In fact, there’s nothing different about tonight from last night. Maybe next year.”

Cue the sadness.

And yet, the next morning, coffee in hand and the brisket drama still echoing in my head, I realized something: this moment, a cocktail of disappointment, guilt, laughter, and longing, felt unmistakably Jewish. In fact, it might have been the most Passover moment of all.

The Mindset Shift And The Ritual We Keep Returning To

Because it’s not about whether you did the seder or not. It’s not about the matzo ball that sank or the Haggadah that never got read. And it’s certainly not about the gefilte fish.

It’s about being part of a story that continues to evolve. A story that lives in overcooked briskets and anxious phone calls. In coconut water births and awkward beach encounters. A story that connects you to something bigger, something beautifully absurd.

Whether you’re in New York, Jerusalem, or Hoi An, Vietnam, you’re feeling a way that other people of your tribe are also feeling. These shared emotions [anxieties, expressions of love, grief, gossip, joy] are the rituals. This is the culture. And whether you practice your faith or not, believe in God or not, you are contributing to that story.

The ridiculous, tender, delicious story of being Jewish.

A Mindset Shift Isn’t performed. It’s Carried

And maybe that’s the real story, Jewish or not. Culture isn’t what gets passed down in perfect form. It’s what survives the chaos. The brisket debates, the unsolicited advice, the missed seders, the awkward beach encounters, the coconut tree birth plans, and yes, even the man peeing near your croissant.

It’s messy, hilarious and deeply human. And underneath it all is this quiet invitation: to keep noticing. Noticing what connects us, what makes us laugh, what makes us pause, what makes us feel like we belong. Sometimes it’s not about retelling the story perfectly.

It’s about creating enough space in your life to feel the story unfolding, even when it looks nothing like you imagined.

I guess Passover didn’t change. But maybe I did. Maybe that’s the mindset shift of getting older. We stop asking who’s doing it right and start noticing what actually matters.

Final Note (Because What’s a Jewish Story Without One More Word)

If you’ve ever felt more connected through brisket banter than ancient text, welcome. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re probably doing it exactly right.

Share this with someone who’s ever hosted a seder, skipped one, or just silently judged the gefilte fish from across the room. Share it with a colleague who has only a surface level of understanding of the craziness that is the Jewish holidays.

And if you’re still wondering whether to brine, don’t ask me. Ask cousin Susan.