Chocolate Hamentashen Fix

I just got back from Lechamim (Breads Bakery in NYC), a yummy place known for their babka. I bought a dozen chocolate hamentashen and gouda bread sticks. The customer ahead of me in line went on a rant after she was caught tasting the hamentashen in line. Apparently at her branch of Lechamim, they do ‘tastings.’

Neither the cashier nor the customer was willing to compromise. I whispered “Smile, just smile” to the cashier and he scowled even more. The manager of the store was called and confirmed that no tastings were done at this branch.

In the past, an incident like this would have really bothered me. Give the woman a taste. This time I saw a Russian cashier was being asked to do something out of his comfort zone. In the friendly Midwest the manager would have been brought in and given freebies to everyone. I did not get drawn in. I simply observed. The woman’s frustration, the cashier’s resistance, the unspoken cultural divide—none of it was mine to carry. I walked out shaking my head.

Why do I notice these things? Why do I care?

Then I remembered my years working as a physician in Madison, WI. Back then, hamentashen were not everywhere. If I wanted them, I had to plan ahead—certainly I could not settle for the doughy apricot ones from Grebe’s in Milwaukee.

The only bakery that carried them in Madison was Manna cafe.

Not one person I worked with was Jewish. I brought the desert just for fun. I was not trying to teach anyone anything. The shape is provocative in itself - is it Haman’s ears? A hat? A vagina? All of my co-workers remember hamentashen.

In Tel Aviv, hamentashen do not need an explanation. They just emerge during Purim, woven into the fabric of life. You can get them anywhere, in the traditional flavors—poppy seed, prune, apricot—but also in distinctly modern Israeli versions: chocolate, dulce de leche, caramel. The dough is crisp, not soft. No need to introduce, explain, or justify.

I left the bakery cycling through emotions: irritation at the unfriendly exchange, self-pity over maybe my last Purim (the cancer card, always lurking), and then—just like that— I was completely distracted by a pair of old-school slippers in a shop window.

If my brother comes here, he will love these circa 1972

The Manna Café in Madison closed in 2020. I no longer work in Madison. Times have changed. And I left that life behind years ago.

What I did not expect was how, in the secular, bustling world of Tel Aviv, Jewish symbols are everywhere. I do not have to explain myself to others. It is tradition, not religion.

For once, I did not let any of it—frustrations, nostalgia, even loss—get to me. I just noticed. And then moved on.

Have a sweet week ♡,

Dr. Anna 🌸🎗️