Hanan Ederi swabs for crumbs before giving a Staten Island home the kosher seal of approval. (
)
(
)
Flipping over your mattress. Boiling your kids’ toys. Dismantling the fridge.
Is it Passover time already?
While all observant Jews clean for Passover, for New York’s Orthodox population, preparing the home for the festive holiday is a plague that makes Pharaoh’s lot look enviable.
“It’s not cleaning — it’s Passover cleaning,” says Martin, a Staten Island doctor who declined to use his last name for reasons of modesty. Every year, Martin outsources these extensive crumb-busting sessions throughout his sprawling kosher, if crumb-plagued, four-bedroom home to the tune of thousands of dollars.
“Any day of the year, my house is 97 percent clean. But we have to differentiate between spring cleaning and Passover cleaning,” insists the 64-year-old grandfather of 14, who expects a guest list of 22 this holiday.
That’s where Nicole Levine, owner of Home Clean Home, the only self-proclaimed Jewish cleaning service in New York, comes in, helping Martin and others unite against a common enemy of the Passover season: the rogue crumb.
During Passover, which starts Monday at sundown, any leavened grains made with yeast are considered “chametz” — meaning they’re forbidden anywhere around the house.
It all amounts to spring cleaning on steroids — as long as those steroids contain no chametz compounds.
The sweeping of a one-bedroom apartment by two or three workers the week before Passover costs $700; a larger home requiring multiple trips can cost up to $7,000. (Regular prices throughout the year start at $250 for an all-day cleaning.)
That’s a lot of dough just to ensure a crumb-free abode, especially considering your walls still might be filthy at the end of the process.
“It doesn’t matter if the walls are black; it’s not about being clean — it’s about getting rid of the chametz,” says Levine, 42, who has seen differering philosophies when it comes to creating a bread-free home sink a 20-year marriage. The husband was “meshuga — he would come home with a glove and check for chametz,” she recounts. (Levine now provides her services to the since-divorced couple separately.)
The concentrated cleaning is done within the four weeks between Purim and Passover and takes hours — it includes breaking down every dining-room chair and reassembling it, emptying out all containers, shampooing every carpet, vacuuming every skylight and dusting every book.
“It’s like taking apart a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle and putting it back together — in the same day,” says Levine.
In this final week before Passover, procrastinating Pesach observers are often turned away due to high volume.
Levine’s clients include everyone from doctors and judges to entertainment execs and fashion designers — who splurge on the annual service.
“They look forward to it more than buying a Coach bag,” says Levine, who also runs side businesses that combat bedbugs, lice and hoarding.
“A woman would say, ‘Don’t tell my husband I spent $5,000!’ ”
If Levine is the chief of the crumb police, then Hanan Ederi is her deputy. Her cleaning compatriot oversees the training and vetting of the 80-plus staff members recruited before Passover time, some from as far away as Israel, and many with years of professional cleaning experience.
“The economy is bad now, but even if [the customers don’t] have money, they have to do it,” says Ederi, 33, who gives the seal of approval once every nook and cranny passes the all-important Q-tip test, for which he swabs every surface to detect any chametz.
Back in Staten Island, Martin is pitching in, helping out the four-member crew by torching his outdoor grill for two hours. (Yup, even though it’s outside, the no-crumbs rule applies there as well.)
“Once you get past the cleaning, it’s a phenomenal holiday,” says Martin, who used to share Passover-sweeping duties with his wife until they decided to give it up five years ago.
“My wife will come home tonight and do the white-glove test, and if it’s not right, she won’t blame them — she’ll blame me!”
dlewak@nypost.com