It's two days before Passover begins and the Meretsky family buzzes around their smallish box of a kitchen peeling, slicing, frying and boiling food for the upcoming holiday.

Technically speaking, there are three generations of family in the room today.

Sarah Meretsky props herself up on a wooden stool, nine months of pregnancy tucked under her apron, grinding vegetables in a food processor.

Her mother, Sandy Knoll, balances a cutting board on her lap while she chops onions.

Rabbi Nosson Meretsky enters the room and peeks into the top of a hot, steaming pressure cooker.

"Are you boiling my chicken necks?" he asks in an edgy tone.

The answer is yes, and after a short fiasco the necks, which resemble breakfast sausage links, are retrieved and put in the oven to roast properly.

The rabbi bought them so he could use the bones for his Seder plates, which are a traditional aspect of the ceremonial meal that welcomes the Jewish holiday of Passover.

Jews celebrate the holiday, which began at sundown Wednesday, to remember when their ancestors were freed from slavery in Egypt more than 3,000 years ago.

This year, Rabbi Nosson will host the Seder in his home for the first time. He became the newest member of the Penn State Jewish community when he and his wife Sarah moved from Brooklyn last semester to set up a Chabad House, a community center for his branch of Judaism.

Moving from a big city with a large Jewish community to a small college town where they're in the minority was a challenge for the couple, but preparing a dinner for more than 40 people is the real test of their abilities.

"It's better to have too much than too little," Sarah says, mixing up some coleslaw.

"Isn't she marvelous?" her mother, who dons a thick, brunette bob identical to Sarah's, says with an adoring smile.

Many would say that she is, considering her due date is the next day.

Sarah's midwife, who works through the Mennonite church in Mifflinburg, predicts the baby will come late. Sarah not only believes the predication; she's counting on it.

If the baby comes during Passover, she could be stuck in Mifflinburg for days, spoiling her Seder plans.

She and the rabbi are members of a group of Hasidim rooted in Eastern Europe that subscribes to a strict interpretation of Judaism.

Their beliefs prohibit them from operating machinery, such as cars, during the holiday unless there is an emergency. Sarah going into labor would constitute such an emergency, but coming back home for the Seder would not.

"A lot of people tell me I'm crazy for doing this," Sarah says.

But she said she only thinks of the members of the community who depend on her.

Most or all of the Jews who will attend the dinner are Penn State students, she says. Because the ceremony usually takes place in the home, students who are away from their families don't get the chance to participate in a Seder like this one.

The students who come could have joined the majority of Penn State's 4,000-some Jews who went to the service run by Penn State Hillel: The Foundation for Jewish Campus Life, but they decided to come here instead.

They come for a variety of reasons. Some say their families are members of the same group as the rabbi, others prefer the cheaper price he offers and still others like the "home-y" feel of his dining room.

Back in the kitchen, Sarah's mother turns the flame down on the burner just in time to stop her soup from boiling over and spilling onto the stovetop. Of course, even if it did boil over, the surface would not get too dirty.

The stove, along with everything else in the kitchen -- the walls, countertops, sink, cupboards and refrigerator -- is covered in aluminum foil.

The rabbi shows off the interior of the refrigerator, which is entirely coated in the silvery wrap.

"This is my handiwork here," he says with a grin.

The purpose of covering the kitchen is to rid it of all chometz. Chometz is the Hebrew word for leavened or risen foods like bread.

During the eight-day-long Passover holiday, which ends Thursday, Jews do not eat any leavened bread. Instead they eat matzoh, a cracker-like food.

The tradition is a reminder of when the Jews left Egypt and did not have time to let the bread rise before they cooked it.

The rabbi takes special precautions to be sure that there is not even a crumb of chometz in his kitchen: underneath the aluminum foil on the counters is a layer of Styrofoam, and the sink basins were blowtorched before a layer of foil was put down, he explains.

The whole process took him about a day to complete. Not all Jews go to this extent for the holiday, he explains, but he feels it's necessary.

"Sometimes it gets out of control," Sarah says. "Sometimes you have to balance yourself."

She mumbles something under her breath about husbands and wives, but the rabbi doesn't hear. He's already on his way downstairs, showing off his "chometz kitchen."

In the basement there is a makeshift kitchen equipped with burners and a refrigerator where the rabbi has moved all the elements of his original kitchen, including pots, pans, dishes and silverware.

Some old things will stick around during the holiday though.

Two candles burn unnoticed in the corner of the packed dining room on the first night of Passover.

The thick metal candlesticks they sit in have a history. They were given to the rabbi when he was in his early 20s by a friend of his mother. He was not raised with the customs he currently embraces, but that gift was a turning point in his life.

After he received the candlesticks, he began lighting candles every Friday in the Jewish tradition.

One thing led to another and now he's here, sharing that tradition -- along with his life and his home -- with any Jew who wants him to.