17/3/95

Tricks and Treats

Thereג€™s one thing worse than giving ג€˜mishloach manotג€™ on Purim. Getting them.

    The Orbaums have gone to Eilat for the day.
    Today we were supposed to be exchanging mishloach manot -- those little plates of goodies sociable Jews present each other every Purim in return for other little plates of goodies. It sounds like such a nice idea. It ain't. It's like Trick-or-Treat with a Jewish twist.
    For instance, what transpired between us and the Schwartzes.
    The first year my wife and I gave out mishloach manot, we simply got out our wedding list, eliminated the out-of-towners and crossed off anyone who hadn't given us a gift. We then whittled down the list further, name by name. "And what about the Schwartzes?" I asked my young bride.
    "Ah, the hell with them," she snarled. "They're not the kind of people to give anyway."
    They gave, of course, marching up to our door with a generous offering and loitering indulgently, like a hotel porter waiting for a tip. My wife had the presence of mind to duck into the kitchen and snatch up a lovely plate we had just received. The Schwartzes weren't fooled. I suppose the giveaway was the card inside that read: "Happy Purim to the Orbaums, from Oscar and Blanche Mitnick."
    The following year, we put the Schwartzes on our list, but they had taken us off theirs.
    A year later, still miffed but playing it safe, we half-filled a small plate with cheapo crap we still had left over from the previous Purim. Schwartz, unfortunately, made up for their insult by giving us an overfull tray stacked with imported delicacies plus, in the middle of it all, a bottle of cognac. Bygones be bygones, they explained with a kiss on each cheek. We could've killed 'em.
    To no one's surprise, the next Purim the respective pendulums swung the other way.
    Last year we decided this must stop. We put together a carefully conceived plate that was not too big, not too small, in fact perfectly average. And we piled the family in to the car and drove over to their house. They weren't there. Infuriated that they were intentionally snubbing us by being sure not to be home when we came to make peace, we were, at precisely the same moment, infuriating them by not being home when they came to our house with their perfectly average peace offering.
    We haven't spoken to them since.

    I MIGHT be more enthusiastic about mishloach manot if the tradition were more practical. All year long we control our impulses to waste money on wildly-overpriced junk food, and then along comes Purim and we fork out a fortune to give others the treats we deny ourselves, in return for too much of the sort we don't like. Marzipan, for instance. We hate marzipan, and homemade hard-as-rock poppy-seed hamentashen, and chewing gum, and little sticky bits of things, and bruised fruit. But, really, what's Purim without them?
    More practical would be a plate of poached eggs and a fresh roll delivered to my door at about 8:30 in the morning.
    This year, my wife and I finally hashed out a plan of action. It came about a couple of weeks ago, taking me unawares when I was on my way to work.
    "Don't forget the shopping list," the better half called out.
    The list was short: "2 chickens, 10 doz. paper plates."
    I was out the door when I stopped to analyze the list. What was she planning to do, serve lunch to the Knesset plenum?
    I enquired about the second item.
    "Purim," she explained.
    "Purim?"
    "Now, don't start that again. We're doing mishloach manot and that's final."
    "I see. And we're going to give 10 lucky families a stack of a dozen paper plates each?"
    "It so happens we know a lot of people. You should be grateful I kept the list down to 120. And anyway, you don't have time to discuss this right now, you'll be late for work."
    I picked up the phone and called in sick.
    "I am not going to blow a week's salary just to perpetuate a custom nefariously created by the junk-food industry. And that's final."
    "Look, all I'm asking you to do is get paper plates. I already bought the rest."
    I put on my Clint Eastwood look. "You already bought the rest!?"
    "The makolet had a sale. Ten percent off. I must've saved 100 shekels at least."
    A quick calculation, based on the fact that the makolet is overpriced by 30 percent at least, and that I earn about halfway between the minimum wage and the national average, indicated that the estimate of a week's salary down the drain was not such a wild exaggeration but was, rather, more like a down-payment.
    "But last year we agreed never to go through this again," I whimpered. "And last year, we only did 14 plates, 15 if you include the Schwartzes."
    I was right, and she knew it, so she changed the subject. Something about this year being my turn to do the Pessah cleaning. "Right," I retorted. "And I'm starting right now, so please return all the junk food."
    At that point it suddenly occurred to me that we're probably not the only family wrestling with this problem.
    I had an idea.
    "What if," I said hesitantly, "we called everybody on your list and worked out a deal whereby we won't give them if they don't give us?"
    She stared at me, stupefied. I persevered. "We could start a grassroots boycott of the whole thing. Who knows, maybe by next year it could become a national cause."
    Then she said the most amazing thing: "Hmm...."

WE TARGETED the most influential yente on the block to get the ball rolling. Mrs. Fish agreed. Within an hour Mrs. Fish got word to the southern half of Jerusalem, and a meeting was set up in our apartment. We decided, for the moment at least, not to let the press in on it.
    Everyone came with their mishloach manot lists, crossing off names as they cut deals with people they knew from the mob scene in our house. Our own list was pared down to eight names (not including the Schwartzes), which meant that, by making eight quick phone calls, we could skunk this scheme entirely, and return all the junk food to the makolet for a credit-refund that would see us through the rest of the year.
     "Well, not really," my wife said. "You know how it is," she continued. "You have people over, you have to serve something."
    I was having such a good time, I hadn't even noticed. "You mean...?"
    "Every last Bisli."
    "And we didn't get anything in exchange. All we got was 112 promises not to give us mishloach manot."
    "That's not the worst of it," my wife went on, thoroughly miserable. "Now we have to go out and buy more, because we still have to prepare mishloach manot."
    I gasped. "The Schwartzes!"
    "You never know...."
    "So we'll have one plate ready, just in case."
    "...And the Greenbergs, never mind that they agreed not to; they'll give, not because they have to, but because they like to. And you don't think Mrs. Benjamin would let an opportunity go by without showing off her baking?"
    "So that makes three plates."
    "And your boss?"
    "Okay, so four."
    In the end, I had to admit we couldn't take a chance insulting anybody who might show up at our door with the best of intentions, despite an agreement. People are like that. And assuming that everyone else would be assuming the same thing, we decided it would be best to prepare some plates, just in case.
    "Better too many than too few," my wife suggested.
    "Just in case," I agreed.
    For no reason at all, at that moment I thought of our first Purim together. The Schwartz surprise. It gave me an idea.
    "What if," I began slowly, "we only made one plate. We give it to the first caller, and then give theirs to the next one in exchange for their mishloach manot, which we then give to the next, and so on and so forth. We begin the day with one plate, end it with one, spend no more than 10 shekels, keep the tradition going and wind up with no more than one piece of marzipan, one bruised fruit, and no hard feelings."
    "Right," she said sarcastically, "and by next year it could become a national cause."
    "Yes!" I said excitedly, "theoretically, all of Am Yisrael could pass along one plate of goodies from house to house, beginning in Kiryat Shmona at dawn and ending in Eilat at midnight. It could work!"
    "You're mad."
    I blushed. "It's worth a try."
    "So who's going to pay for the goodies?"
    "It so happens I know a locksmith whose nephew lives in Kiryat Shmona, and he's a real sport."
    "Uh-huh. And who's going to end up with this national mishloach manot?"
    I grinned. "We are."
    And that's why we're out of town for the day.