I was pretty pissed I wasn’t going to be home. What’s Passover without Aunt Ruth’s matzo balls and Uncle Mark rolling his eyes that the seder was talking too long?

But no family drama this year. I was stuck in Los Angeles, where it’s been warm since February.

Passover is about wearing your new spring skirt even though it’s still chilly outside. If it’s been warm for months, what fun is it?

I was not pleased.

My dad tried to cheer me up. He told me I represented the Jewish Diaspora. I didn’t want to represent the Diaspora. I wanted to be home.

My mom suggested we set up our computers so I could participate in the family seder virtually. Yeah, that sounds fun. Watching my family laugh together, eat together, pray together, yell at each other— but not get to yell back. “Hey guys, hey guys,” I’d shout into the computer screen. “Don’t forget to tease me too!”

My grandmother reminded me it would be my first seder spent with Morning, my Buddhist husband— it would be our first seder together as a married couple and his first seder ever. So now I have to not only show him a rockin’ Passover, it has to also symbolize the start of our new life together. Talk about pressure. Thanks, Grandma.

My sister suggested I rally my friends and host my own seder. But (A) most of my friends are back in New York, near my family; and (B) the few friends I have here are not Jewish.

I had no other option. I couldn’t not celebrate Passover when the Diaspora and my marriage were at stake.

I enlisted some friends and set off preparing for the big night. I downloaded an abbreviated version of the Haggaddah, the text that tells the story of Moses freeing the Jews from slavery in Egypt. Abbreviated as in only 44 pages. What are the important parts? I called my dad, already overwhelmed.

I printed out Passover recipes, and Morning and I went shopping. We went to Costco and then Jons in Los Feliz and Ralphs in Thai Town— still not finding what we needed. I called my mom from each supermarket.

“There’re no Passover desserts here! The only Kosher wine is Manischewitz— what if people don’t like Manischewitz? Can you eat tortilla chips? What about potato chips? I can’t handle this.”

“Relax, Hanna,” she said over and over. “You’re in Los Angeles— go find where the Jews shop.”

Morning and I eventually found the Ralphs at La Brea and 3rd. Smack in the middle of the supermarket stood collection after collection of Kosher for Passover foods. There was Passover chocolate cake mix, carrot cake, non-yeast cereal, four types of matzo, gefilte fish, matzo ball soup mix, matzo meal. There was even a freezer section with Passover blintzes and ice cream. “We found the Jews!” I laughed. It was going to work out.

We went home and started cooking potato kugel and preparing charosis. Morning chopped the apples as I explained the dish symbolized the bricks the Jews made to build the Pyramids. We both had homework to do, but we kept chopping. It was Passover time of year, and though my family was far away, the charosis tasted just right.

But then, with a fridge full of food and a Haggaddah ready to be read, my friends started canceling one by one. They had legitimate excuses— work and personal obligations. Yet I was distraught. It’s Passover, I wanted to scream, that trumps everything! Well, I guess only to Jews.

In the end, Morning and I and our friend Jess, who is also of the tribe, gathered around the table and celebrated the holiday away from our families, but together.

Morning looked at the collection of food I had arranged on the seder plate: salt water, parsley, an egg, horseradish. “What are those?” he asked. I explained that each symbolized a part of the Passover story. “So they’re not offerings?” he said. “No,” I responded, “not offerings.”

We washed our hands, lit the candles and said the prayers. Then the three of us passed the Haggaddah around the table and alternated telling the story of Exodus. Jess was the youngest, so she asked the Four Questions. Morning was the oldest, so he hid the affikomen. We dipped our pinky fingers in the wine, taking away some of our sweetness for each plague, and I imitated the Hebrew chants I had heard every year.

We talked about slavery and told stories about social injustice around the world. I talked about the recent oppression against the Zimbabwean opposition movement. Jess talked about race relations in America. And Morning, who is living a present-day story of exile, shared stories about Burma.

The matzo balls were a tad too salty, and the potato kugel tasted funky. But there was something magical about knowing that Jews all over the world were eating the same foods and telling the same story, just as they have done for thousands of years.

Just as we were going to clean up, Morning said, “What about the affikomen?” Jess and I laughed and raced to find it, looking first under all the cushions, where grandfathers around the world hide it from the children.

It looks like the Diaspora and my marriage— my new family— will both survive. But enough with the funky kugel. Next year in New York, where the matzo balls are homemade and the whole family sings together.