Shalach Manos A-Z
Purim had barely begun before I missed my childhood Purim
"I’m going to Florida for Purim,” I overheard her tell her friend, wheelie in hand. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Do it? I’d wondered. What was so difficult about Purim?
You see, I was still a tad sheltered, all those years ago. I thought everyone did what we did.
Ma prepared a few shaloch manos. Maybe a hedonistic four, at most; Ta leined Megillah at the early minyan, before he was abducted by tax season. We proudly donned our cowboy gear, then loaded into the car.
And off we went to Boro Park, leaving home behind.
Purim was a day of visiting babis and zeidies, nénis and bácsis (that’s “aunts” and “uncles” for you non-Hungarians). No morahs. No rebbeim. No classmates. No friends. To be honest, I was so oblivious, I didn’t even know kids gave each other shalach manos. Ma, smart woman, kept us in the dark about that.
We sat, docile, on a variety of couches, left out of the conversation since we didn’t speak Hungarian. It was during these Purim visits that I became familiar with Ma’s aunts and uncles, who I could always rely on for some gelt. The year I was ten I earned my biggest haul — $28!
We ate the seudah at Babi and Zeidy’s house. Ta took the subway over. Cousins piled atop each other. When we sleepily arrived home, there would be a pile of shalach manos left at the door, cellophane shining in the moonlight. We took them in, oohed and aahed over the nosh inside (Ma had gone “healthy” so this was the only junk we’d get all year), and went to bed.
Ma felt absolutely no guilt that she hadn’t reciprocated. (Because here’s the secret: Many people love giving shalach manos, but aren’t necessarily keen on receiving it. It’s almost Pesach.)
This upbringing left its mark. For eons, I never associated shalach manos with friendship. It was for family, primarily, and maybe next-door neighbors as a thank you for keeping a spare house key just in case you get locked out.
So last year, I decided to see how the other half lives. I made up a list of recipients that came out to, surprisingly, 30 people. There are no more babis and zeidies, but I figured I should give to Families A, B, C . . . to Z. I gleefully raided Amazing Savings for cheerful bags, colorful tissue paper, and glittering tags. I earnestly packaged the grape juice bottles and homemade cookies I took ridiculous pride in (to cover up for the fact that I don’t like hamantaschen).
Purim had barely begun before I missed my childhood Purim.
By the time we’d heard Megillah in shifts (infants can’t attend), gotten dressed into our costumes, and wrestled the baby into his tiger outfit, he conked out in the car seat. I managed Family G, K, N, S, and W before I was ready for a nap, too.
But I had a mental schedule that had to be abided by in order to get to the Brooklyn rounds, and we were woefully behind. I’d forgotten about Purim traffic backing up the narrow streets, bringing us to worrisome standstills. At some point, we haphazardly chucked my precious bags out the window in the general direction of recipients as I screeched “Drive! Drive!”
We didn’t make it to all of our local stops. I missed Family F (I’m sorry, Chaia!) and Family P (they’ve since moved to a different state). Forget about Family D.
By the time we finally made it to my in-laws, we’d managed Families H, L, M, and R. I was limp from stress after spending the day with one eye glued to the clock. I should’ve been more concerned that the baby was fed.
We collapsed at the seudah, my festive makeup melting. I felt no exhilaration, only exhaustion. I was used to enjoying Purim, but that day had been a pressure cooker. Once we crawled home, I sadly unpacked my undelivered bags, squirming at my failure. As for the shalach manos I received, 95 percent was unrecyclable plastic. Ah, themes.
So Ma’s method was to prevent madness. Florida made sense now.
From now on (bli neder), I shan’t attempt to tackle the entire alphabet, but rather stick to a few special letters. The new generation of babis and zeidies come first, along with family in the same zip code. A close friend or two. The neighbors who have house keys. We still need them, and at least I don’t have to fight with traffic to get there.
If I don’t get to you… I’ll send you the link for the cookie recipe. We good?
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 732)
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