But the naked ladies were special, all six of them, three flesh and three clear. They were objects d'art, not just because my brother Art coveted them, but because they were rendered in a classical style that transcended the trashy intentions of the novelty company that created them. Mother accepted them as sculpture, which, like the reclining nude with the salt and pepper breasts, they were. They were educational, since I had not yet seen real women with bowls of Mogen David on their heads. Sometimes I brought my non-Jewish friends over to admire (but not handle) the sacred glass. "They're for Passover," I'd tell them. "Wow," they'd say, epiphanizing. Several converted, and have our sacred chalices to thank for thriving law practices.

The naked-lady glasses were my favorite ritual objects. They certainly redeemed the bitter herbs and salt water, and the shank bone had nothing on them. If Moses could turn a stick into a snake, I remember thinking, imagine what he could do with a naked-lady glass. True, we might never have gotten out of the land of Pharoah, but it would have been known as the Golden Age of Stemware. For the transparent Elijah we left a transparent naked lady. Since glasses were raised every few thousand feet during the Coming Out, we encouraged Dad to do the Exodus in real time. By the time we got to the Four Questions, my raised naked lady trembling, it was all I could do no to ask a fifth, "When do I meet something like this?" I stuck to the text, though, and Mom and Dad, thinking the glow in my eyes was spiritual, sold me into five years of servitude in Hebrew school.

Years later I asked my mother for the naked-lady glasses. She said I could have them when, like Moses, I settled down. Two marriages later, she gave them to me.