On one Purim, years later, I recall getting bags and boxes of goodies from friends. Elaborate with hand made labels, they were lovingly placed in little decorated boxes. It wasn't my birthday, so why was I being treated to gifts?

That's when I first found out about the custom of sharing Mishloach Manot gifts of nosh and hamantashen.

Basically, we must send at least one friend at least two kinds of edibles.

But that's just the minimum. Practically, the beautiful Mitzvah of Mishloach Manot has exploded into a major social extravaganza, as some people send out big packages bulging with fancy fruit arrangements, elaborate cakes and chocolate boxes to all their friends and acquaintances.

Some places overdo it, and have gotten so carried away into major 'theme' gift productions, that it loses some of its original heartfelt person-to-person intent.

So, the next morning I pulled out my rolling pin. Jessica, my younger one, asked, "What's that thing?" (A week before she asked the same question about an iron. I'd better hone my domestic skills.)

Rolling out cookie dough was not my forté. But what we lacked in experience, we made up with enthusiasm, as my girls and I fumbled through baking labor intensive hamantashen.

I suggested we use the traditional prune and poppy fillings, but Rachel and Jessica crinkled up their noses. My suggestion of a more modern alternative: apricot or strawberry, were also rejected. I then hit on it, "how about chocolate?" Both agreed to try it.

We spent the better part of the day experimenting with fudge, chocolate chips, chocolate syrup and sprinkles until we found a consistency and taste that we liked. Hours later, piles of hamantashen were strewn around the kitchen, some sticky with filling that leaked out the sides, some slightly burned, and others just funny looking.

I felt a sense of pride. My girls and I were actually doing a Mitzvah together. Our results certainly were not esthetically or gastronomically perfect, but it came from the heart.

Meanwhile our doorbell kept ringing with folks delivering more goodies. Some brought whole wheat concoctions, others dried fruit, still others had creations obviously made by the family baby. Each tried to breathe life into Purim and share the joy. I felt it was very special for busy people to take time to make us something homemade, and we felt special returning the kindness.

It's been years since I baked hamantashen while my little darlings sat wide eyed on the kitchen counter, covered with flour and taste testing one disaster after another. I can still see Jessica covered from head to toe with flour, and Rachel trying to pinch the hamantashen corners.

Now I do it the easy way, no sweat. I buy assembly-line produced hamantashen from big commercial bakeries that have it down to a science.

Those mass produced H's taste great and look pretty. I fulfill the Mitzvah by writing a check to a charity that delivers Mishloach Manot baskets for me. But I miss the personal 'mom and pop' relationship with a Mitzvah, and the opportunity of passing the treasured recipe of traditional fun (yes, Mitzvot are fun!) on to my kids. I now yearn for those lopsided misshapen hamantashen, the gooey, oozing chocolate, and the whole messed up kitchen.

In a way, it's sad that I no longer have time to share something from the heart with those I love. I now realize that the flavor of the fruit or type of jam filling is irrelevant. The best hamantashen in the world are those filled with love.