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February 25th, 2021 
Awake Goy When my phone calendar reminded me last week to start my annual hamantaschen operation, I realized autocorrect had changed Purim to Putin. I wondered if the FBI was deciphering my “buy ingredients for Putin” and “clear counter space for Putin” tasks. To any agents studying my recipe for clues (“What does she put-in there?”), no authoritarian leaders are entering my kitchen this pandemic or any time. It’s not my tradition.
Tradition matters. For my relatives, that means eating my grandmother’s prune hamantaschen recipe. I also like other poppyular fillings — especially if the holiday falls on a Mohnday — and I make additional flavors for friends. But I wouldn’t be apricaught dead sending non-prune to family without permission. My mother, Esther, loves prune, making them the queentessential version.
Looking at the calendar, I also felt a visceral reminder of last Purim. It’s sobering enough to (mostly) put aside bad puns for a moment and reflect on a year covering our punim with masks.
Last Purim arrived as the pandemic escalated. Here in Washington State, where the first U.S. case was diagnosed, cases and fatalities went up and communities cancelled large gatherings, including Purim festivities.
I’ve fulfilled my hamantaschen-making obligations in unusual circumstances before, so I felt hard-wired to make them. It was also a touchstone. Even modified ritual helps us through uncertainty. I mailed boxes to family then — with precautions — drove around dropping off containers for friends. Standing far apart, we wondered what would happen. Schools closed the next day. A lockdown started a few weeks later.
The ensuing year has been like a twisted version of Purim — minus the fun parts. We’ve worn masks, dressed in unusual ways, consumed more alcohol, ousted a certain public figure and made loud noises at specific times. Between pandemic fatigue and general exhaustion, we’re grogg(i)er than ever.
Between pandemic fatigue and general exhaustion, we’re grogg(i)er than ever.
I keep looking at the ingredients on the counter, knowing I need to bake, yet finding it hard to start. But I have to. It’s in my DNA.
My grandmother perfected her grandmother’s recipe into fragrant, delicate hamantaschen, adding lemon zest to the dough and making lekvar (prune butter) from scratch. As a kid growing up in an irreligious-but-Jewish home, all I knew of Purim, other than who Haman and Esther were, was that my grandmother sent prune hamantaschen layered on wax paper in those repurposed blue tins — you know, the ones covered in pictures of goyische butter cookies. I assumed Purim was a longer holiday, lasting from the hamantaschen’s arrival to the day we finished them. Before my grandmother moved to California, we’d drive from Manhattan to visit her on Long Island, where she put me on a step-stool and taught me to make them, cutting dough circles with a glass.
As my mother says, hamantaschen-making skips a generation in our family. I took over hamantaschen duties a few times in my 20s when my grandfather’s health declined and my grandmother took care of him. Then, in 2011, she died a few months before Purim. At the shiva, I leaned against my grandmother’s kitchen counter with my great-aunt Shirley, both of us trying to hold it together. She asked, “You’re making the hamantaschen, right?”
And I have — sometimes against all odds.
The following year, a few days after Aunt Shirley and Uncle Joe got their box, the hamantaschen for my parents in Manhattan still hadn’t arrived. My mother asked me to look up the location. “Still triangulating,” I said, finding the tracking number. The hamantaschen had gone south to a USPS facility near LAX — three miles from where my grandmother last lived. We joked that my grandmother’s memory wanted to make sure they were up to standards.
Weirder still, the tracking next showed them on Long Island, in Bethpage, NY — a few miles from where she lived before moving to California. After a week-and-a-half tour of the places she called home in my lifetime, the hamantaschen finally arrived undamaged in Manhattan.
The next year, in late January, I moved to Cayenne, French Guiana — and admitted that sending hamantaschen within a few weeks might not be realistic. Purim approached as my now-former partner and I were staying in a hotel, looking for housing. On the avenue outside, Cayenne was celebrating Carnaval with spectacular, rain-soaked, masquerade-filled parades more festive than any Purim celebration I’ve seen (but without triangular cookies).
I felt the pull of tradition and commitment. But I had nowhere to bake. Then, my new friend Jessica invited me to use her kitchen, where I made batches of hamantaschen with her two young daughters. As I attempted to match my grandmother’s ease, we laughed at the resulting pile of messy dough and at my even messier French. The younger girl insisted she’d make hamantaschen for me when she grew up, and I blinked back tears. We ate hamantaschen together.
It’s a gamble to send cookies on a three-continent journey, but beating odds is a Jewish tradition. Compared to Mordechai and Esther foiling Haman’s plot, coordinating an international family-hamantaschen export scheme seemed easy. I carried packages to the post office the next day in a heavy rainstorm that flooded the front yard of Jessica’s house. If I’d waited one day more, I wouldn’t have been able to bake. After a triangular route from Cayenne to Paris to the United States, the hamantaschen arrived intact.
Years later, I’ve never failed to send them. As I face round two of pandemic Purim pastries, I’m grateful my parents are healthy and have been vaccinated. Aunt Shirley and Uncle Joe celebrated Uncle Joe’s 100th birthday this year. Not everyone’s family has been so lucky. And like many, I’ve faced paralyzing pandemic-related depression and anxiety. It’s hard to find energy some days — even for making hamantaschen.
But I got up, started the prunes and am making the dough. Aunt Shirley and my mother have had these hamantaschen every Purim of their lives, and it’s my job to ensure that doesn’t change — to provide something consistent despite challenges. I’ll make extra for friends again too. Consistency, like good food, is cultural resilience.
So is humor. It’s why I’m drawn to the playfulness of puns and of Purim — for which there are lots. We won’t have parties, but we can celebrate safely. Masks are traditional — including Adarable little masks for kids. If some dangerous dude gets in our personal space, we’ll give him Esthern warning: “Hey-man, you’re getting too close.” We can Vashtihands and shush an anti-masker howling about inconvenience. We can prune down outdoor gathering size and avoid indoor ones. Asking people to move Megillah readings online or to a scenic outdoor spot is one way to a-spiel to their better nature.
Or we can stay home and make hamantaschen. As they bake, I’ll enter next year’s reminder into my phone, hoping for better days ahead. This time, I’ll check the spelling.
Deborah (Debs) Gardner is a public health professional, writer and semi-snarky Jew living in Seattle, WA. Our “pundemic correspondent,” she is a multi-time winner of Pundamonium Seattle, a local pun slam.
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