“Just think Jewish Mardi Gras and Halloween,” I explain to my non-Jewish friends whom I’ve brought along to an Oakland Purim carnival. But really, I’m not quite sure what to expect at this event; it’s been many decades since I’ve been to one.
Purim is one of the few holidays from my childhood that I remember celebrating with other Jewish children, since it fell during the few months of my life when we were congregation members. Childhood photos show me on stage in a Sunday school play about Esther and outside at a Purim carnival on top of a pony (or is it a donkey?) at Santa Rosa’s Temple Beth Ami. I’m dressed as a cowgirl, and in my memories it’s mixed up with Halloween, where I must have been a cowgirl that year, too.
As it turns out, my child will have no memories of Purim pony rides. Instead, hers involve face painting, cupcake decorating, and throwing wet sponges at a cut-out of the evil Haman, while she runs around in a leotard, tutu and a tiara. No live animals, but a fun sugar-high afternoon nonetheless.
While I know the Purim story, have listened to the whole Megillah, and can roll the name King Ahasuerus right off my tongue, what I find unfamiliar is the tradition of mishloach manot, gifts of edible goodies, that sit in the kitchens of my Jewish friends. Some arrive in a sturdy canvas bag, others in a basket, depending on which congregation or organization sent it.
I’m reminded of the gilded red envelope of money my daughter receives every Chinese New Year from our friends and neighbors across the street, so I decide to reciprocate with a little Purim tradition and order a basket to be delivered to them.
I learn that mishloach manot is one of the mitzvahs of Purim, requiring the sending of a gift of ready-to-eat food (the word “mishloach” is related to the word for messenger). And since my congregation needs messengers — and, well, it’s a mitzvah — I volunteer. Add Mishloach Manot Messenger to my Jewish resume.
When the day of my service arrives, I find myself driving around Berkeley in the rain. I’m looking at my Yahoo driving directions, determining the quickest route between two points. Purim baskets fill my back seat — plastic bins of goodies, food treats wrapped with brightly colored crinkly cellophane sheets and tied with French wired ribbon. They reflect, like prisms, bouncing the light that breaks through the clouds momentarily on this gray drizzling day.
I arrive at the first destination, but the is gate locked and my doorbell ringing goes unanswered. I can’t leave the basket on the sidewalk on this busy street, and the barking dog on the other side of the fence will devour it if I toss it over. What’s a mishloach manot messenger to do? Will I fail at this simple mitzvah?
I don’t know the family whose name is on the address card, but just as I turn to walk back to the car, the gate opens and a young mother comes out with a child on her hip. “Oh, thank you,” she says, grinning as I give her the blue wrapped gift. “Wow, what’s inside?” I don’t know — I’ve not been part of the purchasing or packing team, I’m in delivery.
At my next destination I leave the basket on a porch crowded with children’s toys. I imagine their surprise when they get home and find it there. As I crisscross Berkeley to another neighborhood, I feel a connection, like I’m weaving an invisible thread tying a disperse Jewish community together, making it a Jewish neighborhood of sorts — a family here, a couple there, as I make my way home.
When I get home in Oakland, there at my door is a basket for us, a little damp from the rain, raindrops stuck to the orange cellophane. I wonder who delivered it and if they felt that connection, too. Inside are hamantaschen, chocolate, croutons, jam, Israeli bubble gum and other goodies.
A message on our voicemail plays while I open the rest of our goodies. “Thanks for the surprise!” my neighbor says while her toddler exclaims several times, “Waz dat!?” And she’s asking us to tell her all about Purim.
Joanne Catz Hartman lives and writes in Oakland. She can be reached at [email protected].