You mean to tell me there are people who think about Purim themes so far in advance that they have time to order supplies from China? And wait for shipping?

That’s a foreign concept to me. Like China foreign.

And somehow those people are all my neighbors.

But here’s the thing — I’m not a total mess. I’ve developed a system that works. And by “works,” I mean we’ve never shown up on Purim without costumes and coordinating mishloach manos. The bar is low, but we clear it.

Step One: Secure Costumes

I call my neighbor. The Tu B’Shevat Temu one. “Do you still have last year’s costumes?”

Of course she does. They’re neatly labeled and stored under the bed.

She pulls out ice cream cones. They fit perfectly. There’s just one small problem: When her kids wore them, they were the ice cream Cohens. Adorable. A whole theme.

Can we be the ice cream Kaplans?

For free costumes? Why yes, yes we can.

(If my geshikte neighbor had said no? No worries — I was prepared to move on to the next building. Then the next. By the time I would’ve gotten three buildings down, I certainly would’ve cobbled together two costumes similar enough to call coordinated. Bunnies and policemen? They both have ears. Bingo.)

Step Two: Mishloach Manos Bag

By now it’s three days before Purim. Right on schedule.

I open the local WhatsApp groups and start hunting. Because someone is always selling extra bags.

“Selling 25 rectangular clear boxes, 60 shekel.”

Sold. And just like that, the size of our mishloach manos list has been determined.

I announce to my husband, “The powers that be have decided. We’re sending exactly twenty-five this year. Start eliminating.”

I dust off last year’s list and start crossing off names. Park friend who didn’t invite us to her son’s upsheren? Gone. The family I gave to the first year we lived here when we had no friends and have been giving to out of habit ever since? So sorry. It’s not you, it’s me and my shortage of boxes.

I pick up the boxes from a woman I’ve never met but who now knows I am not Temu-level-organized, and then — only then — do I start thinking about what actually goes inside them.

Step Three: Fill the Bags

It’s the day before Purim.

I Google ideas of what to put in my mishloach manos. “Easy mishloach manos Purim Israel”

The Internet is predictably unhelpful: “Mini salami, crackers, olives, and wine. Feels sophisticated. Very Jerusalem-cool mom energy.”

YES! YES! Jerusalem cool-mom energy is exactly what I’m after!

I log off and brace myself for the real world. I trek over to PYUP.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t the entire Yerushalayim and their grandmothers doing some last-minute Purim shopping.

At first, I feel vindicated. I’m not that behind if so many other people are shopping now. But then I look around and realize that 98 percent of my fellow shoppers are bochurim in the wine aisle.

Not the demographic I was hoping to align with.

I grab a shopping cart and start my mission: Find things that somehow, someway, coordinate with ice cream cones.

Wafer cookies? Highly cone-adjacent.

Cherry gummies? Obviously. Who hasn’t had a maraschino cherry on their sundae? (Me. I haven’t.)

Mini milk bottles? Yes, yes. The connection is obvious.

I make it to checkout with a cart that looks like I’m either throwing a six-year-old’s birthday party or having a very specific kind of breakdown. The cashier doesn’t blink. It’s Erev Purim. She’s seen worse.

Step Four: Assemble the Bags

Fast forward to Purim night. I just came home from Megillah. The children are peacefully asleep. My dining room table is cleared except for 25 rectangular boxes that are definitely not someone’s overstock.

I dump out my PYUP haul and start assembling.

Wafer cookie, cherry gummies, mini milk bottle. Wafer cookie, cherry gummies, mini milk bottle. The system is working. I’m Henry Ford himself (or whoever invented the assembly line).

I’m feeling smug — maybe even a little geshikt — until I get to box number 22 and realize I’m out of wafer cookies.

No problem! I substitute chocolate coins. Ice cream… coins? Sure. Why not.

By box 24, I’m out of everything coordinated and I’m putting in whatever I can pilfer from my pantry. A granola bar. Some dried mango. A pack of gum.

I step back and look at my work.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I mean the last two boxes are pretty bad, but to care is to wake up extra early tomorrow to restock. And if I was that type, I probably wouldn’t be in this conundrum in the first place.

So I put them in the fridge and go to sleep with the satisfaction of someone who knows she’s about to impress 21 of her closest friends and deeply confuse four others.

T

here’s a lot you can say about me. But you cannot say I’m not resourceful. Or strategic.

Because when Purim morning comes, I know exactly which box goes to my geshikt neighbor, Mrs. Ice Cream Cohen. Box number 4. From the good batch. Before things got… colorful.

Box 24, with the granola bar and gum? That’s for someone who won’t ask questions.

I may not be Temu-organized, but I figured out my own system.

The bar is low. But we clear it. Every single year.

And I’m pretty sure that makes me a Jerusalem-cool mom.

Or whatever I tell myself to help me sleep better.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 983)