// 845.371.2222 and grandchildren (well not his children because they were killed) might have inherited them, or if he did not give them away to a thrift shop it may have eventually been eaten but only by moths. I devote hours of energy and tons of eggs, jam and dough to perfecting my haman tashen every year. As a child, I never analyzed the aesthetic quality of a haman tash. My mother made the most delicious haman tash. I ate them with my eyes closed, or while reading a book, never taking a second look to analyze it. Today, I am the mother, and I have developed a completely different perspective. A study of the chronicles helps us understand that traditions are born at one point in history and continue for generations, though sometimes can develop into variant customs over the centuries. Not so the haman tash. The law of the haman tash is set in stone. Purim without haman tash violates our basic emuna. Haman tash is not a seasonal food. It is our heritage. We read the megillah every year, to refresh the details and learn its lessons all over again, and that is why the simcha of Purim never stagnates. Every colorful detail of the story is relevant to how we celebrate – and the haman tash is the ultimate symbol. I can’t help but muse about how different Purim would have looked had Haman worn a high layered hat with ribbons and feathers. The Purim feast centerpiece would be seven-layer cakes, and our mishloach manos presentations would have turned to mush even before the children did their route. Would that be easier to produce? Maybe, but I feel faint just thinking about wiping all the chocolate and cream off little hands and faces. Thankfully Haman was not a sailor in the Shushan navy, who wore a white sailor cap. Of course, then meringues would have been part of our heritage. True they are easier to store, and are cleaner, but would invoke using thousands of the whites of the eggs. What would we do with all the yolks. We would create new recipes to accommodate it? It would need resources and manpower to maintain normalcy amongst our sugar overdosed children. If Haman would have been megayer, the whole rhetoric would have changed. He would have worn a ‘kappel’. Old fashioned cup shaped ‘ayer kichel’ which we could fill with herring, or to make it more child friendly even with peanut butter. Fortunately, he did not wear a tiny crocheted kipa, otherwise we would be using magnifying glasses to twist decorative miniatures. We would have to begin our Purim baking before Chanukah. Persia is a warmer place than the Soviet Union, where people protect their heads from the Russian frost with furry kutchmes. Whew! Saved from having to make rum balls. Also, at the time the wheel was invented there were still no bicycles, so Haman did not need a helmet. It would have been a dentist’s dream, but a nightmare for parents to feed their children with brittle. Haman’s head covering was designed in heaven. It could not have been any other way, or the story would have been completely different. Three corners. Perfect! A haman tash with four corners would just not be the same. Haman tashen look attractive, and are tasty too, BY CHANA LEBOVITS and are the highlight of Purim. I bake about two hundred pieces of the pastry in one session, but on average only fifteen turn out somewhere from passable to excellent in form and shape. These I display on the table for guests or give away for mishloach manos. The rest, which have become deformed in or before the oven, I share with my family. They don’t mind the extra point or angle, the open flap, or the crack in the dough. They believe from the bottom of their dear hearts, that I make the best Haman tashen in the world. I cringe when friends boast about their haman tash. As much as I try to root out the trick to making the perfect haman tash I always stay with fifteen that I can boast about. I prick my ears for any hint which would upscale my product “You know the secret?” Sarah tells me. “It is to make sure not to add too much flour.” Ten minutes later I run into Rivka, who brags that during the last three weeks she baked a ton of haman tashen. “You know the secret?’ she looks over her shoulder to make sure no one hears. “Just add more flour. That is the trick.” Since Rosh Chodesh Adar, I have heard thirty-six ‘secrets’. Eighteen, then another eighteen exactly the opposite – such as ‘more eggs’ and ‘less eggs’, thicker dough and thinner dough. The spies in the CIA have easier access to their enemy’s secret than I have to my dear friends. I have yet to discover how my friends ‘really’ manage to bake a batch of haman tash, perfectly measured, aesthetically a feast for the eyes as well as for the palate. The most honest answer so far has been, 161
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