Many dreams of young girls are universal: good friends, pretty clothes, a kind chassan, and a beautiful wedding. My daughter will say that I am chauvinistic, and I tell her I am. Girls are girls and boys are boys, and that’s just fine with me. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with those dreams. (Life lesson: It’s what you do when they don’t come true that is the measure of true worth.)

But there are different dreams unique to frum women. Things most women don’t even think about. A beautiful sheitel, a house within two blocks of shul, free/reduced yeshivah tuition, and, of course, a Pesach kitchen. If frum women produced Disney movies, the song “Dreams Come True” would have a stanza about a Pesach kitchen.

I know this for a fact, because I am a frum woman and I have dreamed for a long time about having a Pesach kitchen.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want anything fancy. No state-of-the-art stove or granite countertops, no, no — that wouldn’t feel like Pesach. It needs to be a bit grungy and primitive to fit the bill. An oven, a stovetop, a sink scrunched into some corner of a poorly lit basement or laundry room. Concrete blocks for walls or unpainted dry wall would round it out nicely. That, my friend, is the definition of my ultimate Pesach kitchen.

This dream took on some urgency, when I realized three years into my marriage that I would be the one making Pesach. I never considered taking on this responsibility at such a young age. However, circumstances occur in life when you need to step up to the plate. (Another life lesson: When you need to step up to the plate, step up to the plate.)

At the same time, I also realized that I do not work well under pressure. I needed time to get ready for Pesach and well, when you have little kids and one kitchen and that kitchen is chometzdig, and you can’t really “turn over” until very close to Pesach — Houston, we have a problem.

Somehow I managed, although just thinking about Pesach sent chills down my spine. I listened to all the shiurim about how Pesach cleaning is not spring cleaning, but nothing penetrated. It just sounded like gobbledygook to me. Frankly, even without spring cleaning, there was still a whole lot to get done.

Maybe it was those dreams of a Pesach kitchen that kept me going. As I peeled carrots, apples, and potatoes, and more carrots and more apples and even more potatoes, I would send up my tefillos: “Hashem, one day, only if it’s good for me, I would love, love — did I say love? — a Pesach kitchen.”