The anxieties were there, like every Passover.

Usually, it’s things like will the house get cleaned? Will the food get cooked in time? Will the guests get along? And can the kids be threatened into passable behaviour?

This year, with less cleaning, less time, almost no matzo available and a seder sponsored by Zoom involving extended family in Toronto, Montreal and Washington, it was hard to even know what to expect.

The first bit of good news came mid-afternoon, as my wife informed me of the Montreal host family’s technological coping strategy for this usually joyous exercise in mass participation.

“She’s going to put everyone on mute.”

It wasn’t a good sign when two of the plagues came early.

Yes, there was COVID-19. And as if to mock, the night before the first Passover seder, a hailstorm rattled Toronto. (Can your God do that?)

At our house or especially my parents’ place, the seder — a ritual meal whose origin goes back 2,000 years — is a loud, happy three-and-a-half hour affair preceded by weeks of cleaning, cooking and stress, mainly by my mother. Anywhere from 10 to 18 people, plus some who show up for dessert.

Passover commemorates the biblical Exodus of the Jews from slavery in Egypt. At the seders we retell the story of liberation, which was led by Moses and aided greatly by miracles including the 10 plagues and the parting of the Red Sea. The matzo commemorates the unleavened bread our ancestors had to make in haste as they fled.

At this year’s gathering, we were 19 people, ranging from Orthodox to non-Jewish. The first half-hour was entirely spent connecting my parents, somehow, to the Zoom seder but using WhatsApp. (Don’t ask, I had a better understanding of the Aramaic incantations.) It occurred to me much later that it was no different than the usual half-hour confusion over seating arrangements and who knocked over whose grape juice.

This year, the politicians and health experts urged people to stay home. The rabbis urged people to stay home. Common sense said the same. It’s no wonder “Zoom seders” quickly became a thing, though for strictly religious people who don’t use electricity or computers on the holidays, they weren’t an option. And at our seder, some guests weren’t able to join because they only use their cellphones for talking.

In the lead-up, Passover shopping during a pandemic proved difficult. After calling a few supermarkets whose delivery dates were booked, we realized we couldn’t get matzo — not sold at our local stores — let alone many of the usual holiday foods and wines.

Our special provisions amounted to one box of matzo, a favour from someone down the street, who delivered it to our porch.

A kind gesture, and much appreciated. But I have to admit that in this household, having to rely on a neighbour’s kindness for matzo was unnerving.

We’re healthy and holding up, though, and tried to focus on sharing the Passover feast. I decided to strictly ration the matzo: just serve a symbolic bit, and tuck away the rest.

The geographically scattered seder had a few charming moments involving little kids. Some were lost in cacophony and audio feedback. When other families joined in, prayers and songs were often sung on mute, then repeated unintelligibly.

My children spent a lot of time making faces at the camera, even though by now videoconferencing is how they take classes every day or crash our Pilates/physiotherapy sessions.

After an hour or so, we said goodbye blessed the matzo and logged off to eat the main course. (Roast beef for the past 47 years. This year, salmon. Long story.)

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Later in the evening I realized what we missed: No one raged on about right-wing conspiracies, made inappropriate jokes, yelled at a minor (at least on the videoconference) or got noticeably drunk, though you really couldn’t tell on a tiny screen.

I’d have to say, amid the global disaster, our not-so-little seder was a success.

If only I could remember where I hid that matzo ...

Jon Ohayon is an editor at the Star.