Mishloach manot (“shalach manos”)—giving a portion of ready-to-eat treats on Purim. What’s not to like? We come home from the megillah reading to find a tempting array on the front porch: crunchy shiny cellophane, curled ribbons, baskets, elegant wine bottles peering out the top. The kids start tearing it all apart before we even get in, and bargaining, “Look, a giant chocolate nut bar! I call it.”

I order them to first bring everything to our dining room table, which has become a little piece of chaotic heaven for snackers. Chips, hamantashen, Sara’s famous cakes, candy, soda, juice, wine, fruit, tinsel. Many pounds of sugar and food dye. I try to make note of the givers, before all flows together into a delicious extravaganza.

Look, a giant chocolate nut bar!

I’m torn between conflicting urges:

  • trying to maintain sanity and order—throwing out wads of discarded wrappers, separating the perishables, fruits, baked goods and packaged foods;
  • limiting the sheer amount of sugar the kids (and I) eat;
  • grousing about the amount of money spent on these packages, and thinking how much more meaningful this would be if the money were donated to charity, with only simple food gifts given to a few friends in fulfillment of the mitzvah;
  • feeling self-righteous that we’ve sent cards or e‑mail greetings, and spent our dollars on far-flung Jews who might not otherwise get mishloach manot or know that it’s Purim;
  • feeling miserly and like a spoilsport when friends knock on the door bearing lovely baskets, and I sheepishly say, “Check your e‑mail, I sent you a card”;
  • feeling grateful for all the communal love—after all, mishloach manot are a physical manifestation of the affection we feel for each other, colorfully packaged;
  • trying to focus on the sheer delight of the quickly passing day;
  • laughing and moaning about the divine timing of Purim: exactly one month before Pesach, when all chametz—chips, cookies, cake, wrappers, and their ensuing crumbly, sticky messes, which are filling the house at a dizzying rate—must be gone; and
  • wondering, What are we supposed to do with all this stuff?

So, we develop an ecologically and financially sound solution to our conundrum of:

  • trying to reach outside the circle of the observant community;
  • not wanting to spend big money on what at the end of the day is nosh—mostly snack and junk food;
  • not wanting to OD on sugar for more than a few days; and
  • wanting to spread the love (and empty my house of it).

Taking a cue from the Rebbe, who always stressed the importance of reaching out to every Jew everywhere, we decide to share the wealth! We make a list of disparate Jews we know, who might not even be aware that it’s Purim, scattered throughout the town. We map out a route and reassemble some of the baskets, with our friends’ tastes in mind.

“Mrs. Green is a senior. Let’s go light on the sugar and give her some fruit,” one child declares.

“The Steins have several children; we can add this candy for them. And don’t you think Jen would like this juice? She’s into health foods,” another says, as she pulls choice items from the dazzling and dizzying array on the table.

We load up the minivan and bounce around town. I pull up to a red light and see the driver in the next lane staring. We are quite a sight, dressed in our colorful costumes, clutching our cellophane-wrapped baskets.

We load up the minivan and bounce around town

“Hey, lady, don’t you know Halloween was about five months ago?”

“Hey, you, don’t you know it’s Purim?” I call back with a smile.

And we’re off, in a race against the clock, bursting into offices and stores, invading a regular work day with a blast of Purim joy. “A clown just came in with a basket of edible goodies,” the chuckling secretary notifies her boss, our friend Mr. Cohen. He comes out smiling. Who can resist? Who can help but be drawn into the absurd joy of the day, by most accounts a regular day?

Haman homed in on this very vulnerability, our isolation and separateness. “There is a people,” he told King Achashverosh, “who are scattered throughout the nations . . .” He tried to capitalize on our weakness and destroy us. But the Jews of Shushan annulled his evil decree by gathering together in unity.

We weave through the city, drawing the two Jews on that road and the three over there and the one in the mall into a vibrant fabric of celebration and identity, chocolate and graggers.

Secret confession: I’m not usually very good at outreach. I’m shy and a bit embarrassed; I don’t want to seem pushy or intrusive. But my colorful getup, and the blazing lights of the day, push me out of my limitations, filling me with a giddy confidence.

We’re taking our friends’ love for us, adding our own touch, and spreading the joy farther than they envisioned it going—physically and, sometimes, spiritually.

This Purim, be an ultra-recycler. Grab a basket, and find that lonely senior, the nice man at the electronics store, or your family doctor. Weave your own fabric of light and joy. Reusing love and light doesn’t reduce its power—when you give it again, it only increases!