Growing up, we were fully loyal to the Second Helping Cookbook hamantaschen recipe.
Loyal to strawberry jelly.
In our house there was only one kind of hamantaschen to be made. Strawberry. Every year. At the kitchen table with our mother. The same flour-dusted Formica. The same slightly sticky red filling. The same triangular folding that was always harder than it looked.
The recipe was pretty good.
I, however, could never fully get the hang of it.
To this day, my fillings leak out the side. The corners split. The jam bubbles over and caramelizes in places it was never meant to go. My triangles are… interpretive. Well-intentioned.
Over the years I’ve been educated in the wide world of hamantaschen fillings — from the inexplicable (dates? poppy seeds?) to the over-indulgent (Nutella, I’m looking at you). There are pistachios now. Salted caramel. Cookies-and-cream situations that would have stunned my eight-year-old self.
When we had our bakery, I learned that there is such a thing as a perfectly perfect hamantaschen. I never reached that level. I continue to be a solid B hamantaschen maker. Not for lack of interest. Not for lack of trying.
The tradition hasn’t changed. The recipe has been tweaked a bit. I reluctantly acknowledge that there may be fillings beyond strawberry jam.
But the important staples are still there. It’s still flour on the counter. Still music playing while we roll and cut and argue gently about how much filling is too much filling (answer: apparently always less than I think). Still that quiet hope that this year, maybe, the edges will hold.
They rarely do.
And somehow that feels right. Because it makes the process a little messy. A little imperfect.
And if that doesn’t describe my world — maybe all of ours — I’m not sure what does.