numb3rs | purimgifts ficlets
The three purimgifts treat-a-thon fics, courtesy of all_my_fandoms and roga. Written for valeriev84, who asked for Numb3rs, nothing adult. Ratings are in the mild zone, fics are a mix of gen or canon het, and word counts are all exactly 1000. Thanks to kassie_opia for the awesome betas!
Three Purim stories about hamentaschen, mishlochei manot, and celebrating the occasion. For a basic rundown of the Purim holiday tradition, click here.
Numb3rs | gen | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Photos © CoolAl22 (first) and Zogathon (second), respectively.
Hamentasching
“Old man.” Charlie passed a hand before his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Don’t say things like that. I have a delicate heart.”
Charlie walked into the kitchen and was instantly engulfed in a wave of heat, warm and golden and smelling of rising dough. He blinked at the sight of his father, bent over the counter with an upside-down cup in his hand, sleeves rolled up above the elbows and forearms lightly dusted with flour. The radio was playing quietly, old Bach on piano, and the room was filled with light, spilling from the open windows and brightening every corner.
“Dad?”
Alan turned quickly; he’d been humming to the radio and hadn’t noticed Charlie’s presence. On the counter behind him were a dozen neat circles of dough, interspersed with small bowls and the occasional dirtied spoon. He looked startled, then faintly guilty, more like a kid caught messing around than a grown man in his own kitchen.
“Charlie,” he said, unnecessarily, and stopped, as if grasping for a follow-through. There was a smudge of flour near the left corner of his mouth, probably from wiping his face at one point or another. Charlie thought it rather endearing.
“Hey,” he said, stepping past the threshold. “What are you doing?”
“Um,” said Alan, and waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing much.”
“Right,” Charlie eyed the dough, the bowls, the spoons scattered here and there. “Obviously.”
His father shifted from one foot to another, resolutely not following Charlie’s gaze. “Just experimenting.”
“Smells good, these experiments.” Charlie reached the counter, hands comfortably in the back pockets of his jeans, and stared at the array of ingredients littering the surface. “Wait, is this-?”
“Hamentaschen,” Alan admitted. At Charlie’s raised eyebrow, he looked defiant. “Millie said she’d always wanted to taste one, and store-bought is terrible quality. I didn’t know what kind she’d like so I thought I’d make a few batches, that’s all.”
“You know how?” Charlie seemed surprised at himself for asking, then slightly embarrassed. “Um, I mean, it’s just that you never made any. It was always, you know.”
“Charlie, I learned to cook from scratch after your mother passed away,” Alan said, not unkindly. “I figured, if she could whip up dozens of these every year, how hard can it be?” He stared down at the counter, where a number of dough circles were lying innocently, waiting to be filled and folded into triangles. “She didn’t ever write down the recipe, but I remember bits and pieces, and the rest I looked up on the Internet. It’s not too hard.”
“Wait, so you’re actually making hamentaschen?” Charlie had taken his hands out of his pockets, which meant he was, if not nervous, at least surprised, needing to come to grips with something new. “What fillings are you using?”
“I was waiting for you to ask,” Alan pointed at one of the small bowls. “That one’s poppy seed; I bought it today. Here’s apricots, and prunes, and I’ve got some caramel over there.”
“And chocolate?” Charlie looked momentarily distressed. “Aren’t you making any chocolate ones?”
“Nope, sorry, Millie doesn’t like the stuff.” Alan shrugged dismissively, but when Charlie’s horrified expression intensified he gave a snort of laughter. “What are you, dense? Of course I’m making chocolate. They’re your favourite.”
“Old man.” Charlie passed a hand before his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Don’t say things like that. I have a delicate heart.”
“Right, right, that’s why you’re working with the FBI.” Alan turned back to his baking, grumbling. “And don’t call me that, or I really won’t make any.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Charlie tried to duck out of the way, but was snagged by a flour-covered hand grabbing his wrist. “Oy!”
“Oy yourself, kiddo, you’re not going anywhere. If you’re here you might as well help out.” Alan gestured with his head at the oven, which was merrily radiating heat. “First batch is in the making, but we’ve got to get the second one ready. Roll up your sleeves.”
“I, I can’t, I’ve got some very important crime-related, uh.” Upon seeing the expression on his father’s face, Charlie faltered. Then he merely sighed. “Alright, you win. But let go, you’re getting flour on my shirtsleeve.”
“Ungrateful little shlub,” Alan harrumphed, passing the cup into Charlie’s hands. “Okay, listen, you press this into the dough, like a cookie-cutter, only make sure the circles aren’t too close to each other or too thin.”
“And what are you gonna do?” Charlie asked, resigning himself to an afternoon of kitchen duties. It wasn’t entirely horrible, actually. He almost felt like a little kid again.
“I’ll be doing the filling and the folding,” Alan said decisively, picking up a spoon and the bowl with caramel in it. He shot Charlie a look of blazing confidence. “Millie won’t even know what hit her.”
“Let’s hope,” said Charlie, and set to work.
They hamentaschen’d all afternoon, until the windows gradually darkened and the overhead lights turned on, as Bach changed into Gershwin and finally segued into smooth evening jazz, swelling up inside the room and brightening every corner.
(“Not another batch of poppy seeds,” Charlie pleaded. “Can’t you do some more chocolate?”
“No,” Alan retorted. “In case you forgot, your brother and I love poppy seeds.”
“Yes, because you’re freaks,” Charlie grumbled, which prompted Alan to exclaim something about pots and kettles, then declare an embargo on the chocolate until further notice. There followed a lot of distressed cup-waving.)
When Millie showed up for dinner with Don, Amita and Larry in tow, they found Charlie and Alan tired but beaming, covered head to toe in flour and holding up a tray heaped with hamentaschen, fresh from the oven and sprinkled with caster sugar. The dinner table was set, and from the radio Louis Armstrong crooned in rough, sandpaper bass.
“What the hell?” Amita asked, while behind her Larry looked both incredulous and highly amused. “What is all this?”
“I know what this is,” Don said gleefully, snagging a poppy-seed-filled hamentash. “It’s the essence of the Eppes household. They tried to kill us. We won.” He popped the hamentash into his mouth, grinning. “Now let’s eat.”
Numb3rs | gen | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Illustrations © Richard Thompson, photomanip self-made.
The Unsolvable Problem
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Larry said. “I’m an avid supporter of both. However, I find myself quintessentially leaning towards the latkes side, and for reasons not perfunctorily dismissed.”
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Larry said. “I’m an avid supporter of both. However, I find myself quintessentially leaning towards the latkes side, and for reasons not perfunctorily dismissed. To quote the unimpeachable Ted Cohen: ‘A world without hamentaschen might be unbearable, but a world without latkes is unthinkable’. In the wake of such a ringing truth I can voice only assent.”
“How can you think that?” Charlie leaned forward, palms flat against the edge of the wood, feet dangling from where he perched on the desk. “The hamentaschen are so clearly superior to the latkes. We see their shape time and again in the world around us-everywhere from flora to fauna to the stars above. Surely you of all people should appreciate the significance of this.”
“As much as I am taken by the concept of a foodstuff acting as the next Golden Ratio and you becoming the world’s next Luca Pacioli, I must disagree with you in re the exact nature of this foodstuff. Clearly it is the latkes, not the hamentaschen, which we see faithfully replicated in the natural world. While a hamentash may bear superficial resemblance to a geometric triangle, the latke is the most intrinsic and primeval of all forms: it is the amorphous mass, the raw potential, the lump in our earliest Primordial Soup. It preceded the hamentash and possibly even gave birth to it, from the depths of its meticulously-structured chaos.”
“That’s nonsense,” Charlie scoffed. “There’s nothing meticulous or structured about latkes. Besides, the whole thing began as a tradition among Jews in Europe during the Diaspora, same as the hamentaschen; there’s no logical way you can prove which one really came first.”
“Alas, my young friend; a deeper look at the sources betrays your ignorance.” Larry held up an instructive finger and tilted up his chin slightly, indicating he was about to launch into lecture mode forthwith. “The Hebrew word for latkes, commonly known as levivot, finds it sources in the Book of Samuel, harking back to the Biblical story of Amnon and Tamar while dating as far back as-let me see-approximately 900 B.C. The hamentaschen, contrarily, were derived from the Scroll of Esther, the story of which occurred during one of the great Babylonian exiles, more than 500 years later at the very least. Not to mention the hamentaschen aren’t directly mentioned in the Scroll itself but are the invention of the Ashkenazi Jews, a fact which knocks their creation date forward by another thousand years at the very minimum. To wit, latkes came much earlier.”
“You can’t be sure Biblical latkes were the same as our modern-day kind. At least we know the hamentash is faithful to its roots.” Charlie swung his legs fitfully, knocking against the dark wood of the desk. Larry leaned against a chalkboard, full of scholarly aplomb but for the impassioned spark of defiance in his eyes. This was one of their eternal arguments, worn thin and familiar by time. Much-trodden, but still exciting as the first time Charlie had sat in on one of Larry’s classes, 13 years old, only to raise his hand and boldly tell Larry that he was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Larry was just as mistaken now as he was then, Charlie knew. How could anyone deny the superiority of the hamentaschen? It defied reason, it defied logic, and most of all it defied any sort of good taste. He said as much, and Larry quirked an eyebrow, amused.
“You’re wearing down, Charles, teetering on your last legs. You should know by now that ad hominem is no proper way to argue your case-one must attack the claim, not its proponent.”
“I’m not attacking anyone, I’m stating a fact.” Charlie sniffed. “You’re just trying to battle reality. It’s not my fault you’ve got poor culinary taste. Remember Kleitman in the 2006 debate? He ripped your defences of the latke to the ground. That sort of logic is undeniable.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re a fan of his work, most of which is highly dubious and not very mathematical, if I may point out. Besides, he has a stupid moustache.”
“Ad hominem,” Charlie taunted, and Larry made a face at him.
“Just stating a fact,” he mimicked, and Charlie made a face at him.
“Lame.”
“Insightful.”
“Petty.”
“Astute.”
“Childish.”
“I prefer ‘youthfully debonair’.”
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Amita toed the door of the study shut behind her, arms full of several paper bags and looking at them curiously. “Um, I take it the old holiday debate is on again?”
“If only young Charles would care to enlighten himself and open his eyes to the truth!” Larry sighed, utterly woebegone. “He still has much to learn outside of mathematics. The lad needs to mature.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one insulting people’s moustaches in a fit of professional jealousy just a minute ago, Fleinhardt.” Charlie hopped down from his seat on the desk, moved to take the bags away from Amita and give her an affectionate peck on the cheek. He plunked them on the desk and started rifling through the one nearest to him. “What’s all this, then?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” Amita said, frowning. “Your father gave it to me, he asked me to drop by the house and pick it up on my way here. He said it was a present for you and Larry.”
“This cannot end well,” Larry muttered, as Charlie withdrew two plain carton boxes, each one clearly labelled ‘LARRY’ and ‘CHARLIE’. They exchanged looks of foreboding; Charlie handed Larry his box, and on the count of three they both opened them.
Inside each box was an assortment of foodstuffs: pomegranates, horseradish, matzo and matzah balls, charoset, sliced cheese. Attached to the top of each box was a handwritten note, scripted in black pen and taped to the underside of the lid:
If you’re already mixing holidays, why not do it properly and include all of them?
And underneath, underlined and in bold:
Meshuggeners.
Numb3rs | Don/Robin | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Photo © heller_dk at Flicker.
On The Sending and Receiving of Unauthorized Gifts During Work Hours
That morning, when Don walked into the office, there was a small package waiting on his desk.
That morning, when Don walked into the office, there was a small package waiting on his desk.
“Megan?” He called out, eyeing it warily. “What the hell is this?” The package was a white box, small and very neat, wrapped in a jaunty yellow bow. It didn’t look particularly explosive, but Don knew that didn’t count for much-he’d seen bombs which looked like baby kittens before. They tended to blow up just the same. “Who sent this?”
Megan raised her head from the computer screen and shot him a look as though he was mentally retarded. “Well,” she drawled, “I’m no expert on these things, but it looks like somebody’s got a secret admirer. And I think the whole point is for their identity to remain, you know, secret.” She paused. “Ring any bells?”
“But how do we know it’s safe?” Don protested. He wasn’t used to getting anonymous presents on his desk, and felt unequipped to deal with the situation. If it didn’t need eradicating, it usually wasn’t his responsibility. “Did this thing even pass clearance? We’re the FBI, we get sent explosives on a daily basis, goddamnit.”
Megan gave him another bland you’re-a-moron look, this one slightly less patient than the last. “It’s here, isn’t it? I know you have a slew of enemies, Don, but trust the security team to screen your V-Day tokens before they send them to your desk.” She mimicked his tone. “We’re the FBI, goddamnit.”
“It’s not even close to Valentine’s Day,” he continued, doggedly. “Today is...” He blinked. The package sat on his desk, innocuous, waiting to be opened. It was a compact affair, just big enough to hold a couple of pastries, maybe a small gift or a card. He stared. It was the right time of the year, but who the hell would send him a mishloach manot? Who was an observant Jew? Unless his family had started sending him presents, which was unlikely, and David wouldn’t bother...
In the end, sheer curiosity won out over caution, and he opened the box. It was filled with white wrapping paper, acting as insulation and buffer, while inside nestled several hamentaschen, a plastic half-face mask and a folded card. Don opened the card and read it, slowly, then again to make sure. It said:
Enjoy your “mishloach manot“ (?). Hope I got it right. Happy Purim, I’m free this evening if you want to celebrate.
P.S. Look underneath the wrapping paper.
He didn’t need a name to know who it was from: Robin’s hand was apparent in even the tiniest detail. The wrapping paper crumpled under his hands, flimsy-thin; he rooted around the bottom of the box and drew out a large bronze house-key.
Don’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at it for a long, slow minute, then drew out his cell phone and hit speed dial.
One ring, two.
“Brooks speaking.” Her voice was formal; she hadn’t glanced at the number before answering.
Don smiled against the receiver. “Hey,” he said. “That’s some mishloach manot.”
“Oh, you got it?” She sounded delighted, and Don could imagine her, standing at a window or near a desk, spine straight, smiling proudly. “I did some research; hope I got it right. Other people’s religions are always a tricky business.”
“I don’t know whether I’ll, uh, use the mask,” he admitted. “The hamentaschen are great, though, and the card. Um. Why d’you do it?”
“Oh, well.” She sounded mildly uncomfortable. “I’ve noticed you became a bit more... observant since we last met. Not a believer, maybe, I don’t know, but it’s something you think about more.”
“And this bothers you?” The question came out before he’d even thought of it; knee-jerk, defensive.
“No, calm down, Rambo,” she said. “Look... if it’s something that preoccupies you, I want to be part of it too, okay? I want to know what you’re thinking about. You compartmentalize yourself enough as is, whatever parts of your life I can access, I want in on.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that, and heard her laughing on the other end of the line, good-natured. She sobered pretty quickly, though. “I’m serious, Don,” she said, and he could imagined her pursed lips, the crinkles as she narrowed her eyes.
“I know.” He fiddled with the key, cupping it in the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest. “Speaking of serious, you do know that mishlochei manot are supposed to contain only small gifts, right? If this key is what I think it is, well, um.” He swallowed, feeling stupidly tongue-tied. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” she advised him, completely neutral. “Just come to my place tonight. You haven’t got any excuse not to, now that you can just let yourself in. I did a bit of research, like I said,” her voice turned conspiratorial. “Apparently there’s this thing called adlayada? Because I’m thinking, dancing and celebration and getting drunk, sounds like a good time to me.”
Don had no words. He clutched the key in his hands, cherishing the weight of it, the scalloped edges digging into his palm. He wanted to tell Robin she was beautiful, she was amazing, that nobody had gone out of their way for him like that before, not outside the line of duty. Instead he cleared his throat and asked: “Tonight?”
“Come pick me up at eight,” she offered. “We’ll grab dinner and go somewhere fun. I know some places, and you need to fulfil a few mitzvahs.”
“Right,” he said, and grinned. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” she informed him. “And get ready to tell me the story of the Scroll of Esther. I like that Vashti chick, she sounds awesome.”
Robin would like Vashti, Don thinks. They share the trait of kicking ass and not taking shit from anyone. “Cool,” he says.
“Let yourself in,” she reminds him, then, “gotta go-see you tonight-” and hangs up with a merry click.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Three Purim stories about hamentaschen, mishlochei manot, and celebrating the occasion. For a basic rundown of the Purim holiday tradition, click here.
Numb3rs | gen | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Photos © CoolAl22 (first) and Zogathon (second), respectively.
Hamentasching
“Old man.” Charlie passed a hand before his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Don’t say things like that. I have a delicate heart.”
Charlie walked into the kitchen and was instantly engulfed in a wave of heat, warm and golden and smelling of rising dough. He blinked at the sight of his father, bent over the counter with an upside-down cup in his hand, sleeves rolled up above the elbows and forearms lightly dusted with flour. The radio was playing quietly, old Bach on piano, and the room was filled with light, spilling from the open windows and brightening every corner.
“Dad?”
Alan turned quickly; he’d been humming to the radio and hadn’t noticed Charlie’s presence. On the counter behind him were a dozen neat circles of dough, interspersed with small bowls and the occasional dirtied spoon. He looked startled, then faintly guilty, more like a kid caught messing around than a grown man in his own kitchen.
“Charlie,” he said, unnecessarily, and stopped, as if grasping for a follow-through. There was a smudge of flour near the left corner of his mouth, probably from wiping his face at one point or another. Charlie thought it rather endearing.
“Hey,” he said, stepping past the threshold. “What are you doing?”
“Um,” said Alan, and waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing much.”
“Right,” Charlie eyed the dough, the bowls, the spoons scattered here and there. “Obviously.”
His father shifted from one foot to another, resolutely not following Charlie’s gaze. “Just experimenting.”
“Smells good, these experiments.” Charlie reached the counter, hands comfortably in the back pockets of his jeans, and stared at the array of ingredients littering the surface. “Wait, is this-?”
“Hamentaschen,” Alan admitted. At Charlie’s raised eyebrow, he looked defiant. “Millie said she’d always wanted to taste one, and store-bought is terrible quality. I didn’t know what kind she’d like so I thought I’d make a few batches, that’s all.”
“You know how?” Charlie seemed surprised at himself for asking, then slightly embarrassed. “Um, I mean, it’s just that you never made any. It was always, you know.”
“Charlie, I learned to cook from scratch after your mother passed away,” Alan said, not unkindly. “I figured, if she could whip up dozens of these every year, how hard can it be?” He stared down at the counter, where a number of dough circles were lying innocently, waiting to be filled and folded into triangles. “She didn’t ever write down the recipe, but I remember bits and pieces, and the rest I looked up on the Internet. It’s not too hard.”
“Wait, so you’re actually making hamentaschen?” Charlie had taken his hands out of his pockets, which meant he was, if not nervous, at least surprised, needing to come to grips with something new. “What fillings are you using?”
“I was waiting for you to ask,” Alan pointed at one of the small bowls. “That one’s poppy seed; I bought it today. Here’s apricots, and prunes, and I’ve got some caramel over there.”
“And chocolate?” Charlie looked momentarily distressed. “Aren’t you making any chocolate ones?”
“Nope, sorry, Millie doesn’t like the stuff.” Alan shrugged dismissively, but when Charlie’s horrified expression intensified he gave a snort of laughter. “What are you, dense? Of course I’m making chocolate. They’re your favourite.”
“Old man.” Charlie passed a hand before his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Don’t say things like that. I have a delicate heart.”
“Right, right, that’s why you’re working with the FBI.” Alan turned back to his baking, grumbling. “And don’t call me that, or I really won’t make any.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Charlie tried to duck out of the way, but was snagged by a flour-covered hand grabbing his wrist. “Oy!”
“Oy yourself, kiddo, you’re not going anywhere. If you’re here you might as well help out.” Alan gestured with his head at the oven, which was merrily radiating heat. “First batch is in the making, but we’ve got to get the second one ready. Roll up your sleeves.”
“I, I can’t, I’ve got some very important crime-related, uh.” Upon seeing the expression on his father’s face, Charlie faltered. Then he merely sighed. “Alright, you win. But let go, you’re getting flour on my shirtsleeve.”
“Ungrateful little shlub,” Alan harrumphed, passing the cup into Charlie’s hands. “Okay, listen, you press this into the dough, like a cookie-cutter, only make sure the circles aren’t too close to each other or too thin.”
“And what are you gonna do?” Charlie asked, resigning himself to an afternoon of kitchen duties. It wasn’t entirely horrible, actually. He almost felt like a little kid again.
“I’ll be doing the filling and the folding,” Alan said decisively, picking up a spoon and the bowl with caramel in it. He shot Charlie a look of blazing confidence. “Millie won’t even know what hit her.”
“Let’s hope,” said Charlie, and set to work.
They hamentaschen’d all afternoon, until the windows gradually darkened and the overhead lights turned on, as Bach changed into Gershwin and finally segued into smooth evening jazz, swelling up inside the room and brightening every corner.
(“Not another batch of poppy seeds,” Charlie pleaded. “Can’t you do some more chocolate?”
“No,” Alan retorted. “In case you forgot, your brother and I love poppy seeds.”
“Yes, because you’re freaks,” Charlie grumbled, which prompted Alan to exclaim something about pots and kettles, then declare an embargo on the chocolate until further notice. There followed a lot of distressed cup-waving.)
When Millie showed up for dinner with Don, Amita and Larry in tow, they found Charlie and Alan tired but beaming, covered head to toe in flour and holding up a tray heaped with hamentaschen, fresh from the oven and sprinkled with caster sugar. The dinner table was set, and from the radio Louis Armstrong crooned in rough, sandpaper bass.
“What the hell?” Amita asked, while behind her Larry looked both incredulous and highly amused. “What is all this?”
“I know what this is,” Don said gleefully, snagging a poppy-seed-filled hamentash. “It’s the essence of the Eppes household. They tried to kill us. We won.” He popped the hamentash into his mouth, grinning. “Now let’s eat.”
Numb3rs | gen | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Illustrations © Richard Thompson, photomanip self-made.
The Unsolvable Problem
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Larry said. “I’m an avid supporter of both. However, I find myself quintessentially leaning towards the latkes side, and for reasons not perfunctorily dismissed.”
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Larry said. “I’m an avid supporter of both. However, I find myself quintessentially leaning towards the latkes side, and for reasons not perfunctorily dismissed. To quote the unimpeachable Ted Cohen: ‘A world without hamentaschen might be unbearable, but a world without latkes is unthinkable’. In the wake of such a ringing truth I can voice only assent.”
“How can you think that?” Charlie leaned forward, palms flat against the edge of the wood, feet dangling from where he perched on the desk. “The hamentaschen are so clearly superior to the latkes. We see their shape time and again in the world around us-everywhere from flora to fauna to the stars above. Surely you of all people should appreciate the significance of this.”
“As much as I am taken by the concept of a foodstuff acting as the next Golden Ratio and you becoming the world’s next Luca Pacioli, I must disagree with you in re the exact nature of this foodstuff. Clearly it is the latkes, not the hamentaschen, which we see faithfully replicated in the natural world. While a hamentash may bear superficial resemblance to a geometric triangle, the latke is the most intrinsic and primeval of all forms: it is the amorphous mass, the raw potential, the lump in our earliest Primordial Soup. It preceded the hamentash and possibly even gave birth to it, from the depths of its meticulously-structured chaos.”
“That’s nonsense,” Charlie scoffed. “There’s nothing meticulous or structured about latkes. Besides, the whole thing began as a tradition among Jews in Europe during the Diaspora, same as the hamentaschen; there’s no logical way you can prove which one really came first.”
“Alas, my young friend; a deeper look at the sources betrays your ignorance.” Larry held up an instructive finger and tilted up his chin slightly, indicating he was about to launch into lecture mode forthwith. “The Hebrew word for latkes, commonly known as levivot, finds it sources in the Book of Samuel, harking back to the Biblical story of Amnon and Tamar while dating as far back as-let me see-approximately 900 B.C. The hamentaschen, contrarily, were derived from the Scroll of Esther, the story of which occurred during one of the great Babylonian exiles, more than 500 years later at the very least. Not to mention the hamentaschen aren’t directly mentioned in the Scroll itself but are the invention of the Ashkenazi Jews, a fact which knocks their creation date forward by another thousand years at the very minimum. To wit, latkes came much earlier.”
“You can’t be sure Biblical latkes were the same as our modern-day kind. At least we know the hamentash is faithful to its roots.” Charlie swung his legs fitfully, knocking against the dark wood of the desk. Larry leaned against a chalkboard, full of scholarly aplomb but for the impassioned spark of defiance in his eyes. This was one of their eternal arguments, worn thin and familiar by time. Much-trodden, but still exciting as the first time Charlie had sat in on one of Larry’s classes, 13 years old, only to raise his hand and boldly tell Larry that he was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Larry was just as mistaken now as he was then, Charlie knew. How could anyone deny the superiority of the hamentaschen? It defied reason, it defied logic, and most of all it defied any sort of good taste. He said as much, and Larry quirked an eyebrow, amused.
“You’re wearing down, Charles, teetering on your last legs. You should know by now that ad hominem is no proper way to argue your case-one must attack the claim, not its proponent.”
“I’m not attacking anyone, I’m stating a fact.” Charlie sniffed. “You’re just trying to battle reality. It’s not my fault you’ve got poor culinary taste. Remember Kleitman in the 2006 debate? He ripped your defences of the latke to the ground. That sort of logic is undeniable.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re a fan of his work, most of which is highly dubious and not very mathematical, if I may point out. Besides, he has a stupid moustache.”
“Ad hominem,” Charlie taunted, and Larry made a face at him.
“Just stating a fact,” he mimicked, and Charlie made a face at him.
“Lame.”
“Insightful.”
“Petty.”
“Astute.”
“Childish.”
“I prefer ‘youthfully debonair’.”
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Amita toed the door of the study shut behind her, arms full of several paper bags and looking at them curiously. “Um, I take it the old holiday debate is on again?”
“If only young Charles would care to enlighten himself and open his eyes to the truth!” Larry sighed, utterly woebegone. “He still has much to learn outside of mathematics. The lad needs to mature.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one insulting people’s moustaches in a fit of professional jealousy just a minute ago, Fleinhardt.” Charlie hopped down from his seat on the desk, moved to take the bags away from Amita and give her an affectionate peck on the cheek. He plunked them on the desk and started rifling through the one nearest to him. “What’s all this, then?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” Amita said, frowning. “Your father gave it to me, he asked me to drop by the house and pick it up on my way here. He said it was a present for you and Larry.”
“This cannot end well,” Larry muttered, as Charlie withdrew two plain carton boxes, each one clearly labelled ‘LARRY’ and ‘CHARLIE’. They exchanged looks of foreboding; Charlie handed Larry his box, and on the count of three they both opened them.
Inside each box was an assortment of foodstuffs: pomegranates, horseradish, matzo and matzah balls, charoset, sliced cheese. Attached to the top of each box was a handwritten note, scripted in black pen and taped to the underside of the lid:
If you’re already mixing holidays, why not do it properly and include all of them?
And underneath, underlined and in bold:
Meshuggeners.
Numb3rs | Don/Robin | 1000 words | mild | beta'd by kassie_opia. Photo © heller_dk at Flicker.
On The Sending and Receiving of Unauthorized Gifts During Work Hours
That morning, when Don walked into the office, there was a small package waiting on his desk.
That morning, when Don walked into the office, there was a small package waiting on his desk.
“Megan?” He called out, eyeing it warily. “What the hell is this?” The package was a white box, small and very neat, wrapped in a jaunty yellow bow. It didn’t look particularly explosive, but Don knew that didn’t count for much-he’d seen bombs which looked like baby kittens before. They tended to blow up just the same. “Who sent this?”
Megan raised her head from the computer screen and shot him a look as though he was mentally retarded. “Well,” she drawled, “I’m no expert on these things, but it looks like somebody’s got a secret admirer. And I think the whole point is for their identity to remain, you know, secret.” She paused. “Ring any bells?”
“But how do we know it’s safe?” Don protested. He wasn’t used to getting anonymous presents on his desk, and felt unequipped to deal with the situation. If it didn’t need eradicating, it usually wasn’t his responsibility. “Did this thing even pass clearance? We’re the FBI, we get sent explosives on a daily basis, goddamnit.”
Megan gave him another bland you’re-a-moron look, this one slightly less patient than the last. “It’s here, isn’t it? I know you have a slew of enemies, Don, but trust the security team to screen your V-Day tokens before they send them to your desk.” She mimicked his tone. “We’re the FBI, goddamnit.”
“It’s not even close to Valentine’s Day,” he continued, doggedly. “Today is...” He blinked. The package sat on his desk, innocuous, waiting to be opened. It was a compact affair, just big enough to hold a couple of pastries, maybe a small gift or a card. He stared. It was the right time of the year, but who the hell would send him a mishloach manot? Who was an observant Jew? Unless his family had started sending him presents, which was unlikely, and David wouldn’t bother...
In the end, sheer curiosity won out over caution, and he opened the box. It was filled with white wrapping paper, acting as insulation and buffer, while inside nestled several hamentaschen, a plastic half-face mask and a folded card. Don opened the card and read it, slowly, then again to make sure. It said:
Enjoy your “mishloach manot“ (?). Hope I got it right. Happy Purim, I’m free this evening if you want to celebrate.
P.S. Look underneath the wrapping paper.
He didn’t need a name to know who it was from: Robin’s hand was apparent in even the tiniest detail. The wrapping paper crumpled under his hands, flimsy-thin; he rooted around the bottom of the box and drew out a large bronze house-key.
Don’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at it for a long, slow minute, then drew out his cell phone and hit speed dial.
One ring, two.
“Brooks speaking.” Her voice was formal; she hadn’t glanced at the number before answering.
Don smiled against the receiver. “Hey,” he said. “That’s some mishloach manot.”
“Oh, you got it?” She sounded delighted, and Don could imagine her, standing at a window or near a desk, spine straight, smiling proudly. “I did some research; hope I got it right. Other people’s religions are always a tricky business.”
“I don’t know whether I’ll, uh, use the mask,” he admitted. “The hamentaschen are great, though, and the card. Um. Why d’you do it?”
“Oh, well.” She sounded mildly uncomfortable. “I’ve noticed you became a bit more... observant since we last met. Not a believer, maybe, I don’t know, but it’s something you think about more.”
“And this bothers you?” The question came out before he’d even thought of it; knee-jerk, defensive.
“No, calm down, Rambo,” she said. “Look... if it’s something that preoccupies you, I want to be part of it too, okay? I want to know what you’re thinking about. You compartmentalize yourself enough as is, whatever parts of your life I can access, I want in on.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that, and heard her laughing on the other end of the line, good-natured. She sobered pretty quickly, though. “I’m serious, Don,” she said, and he could imagined her pursed lips, the crinkles as she narrowed her eyes.
“I know.” He fiddled with the key, cupping it in the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest. “Speaking of serious, you do know that mishlochei manot are supposed to contain only small gifts, right? If this key is what I think it is, well, um.” He swallowed, feeling stupidly tongue-tied. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” she advised him, completely neutral. “Just come to my place tonight. You haven’t got any excuse not to, now that you can just let yourself in. I did a bit of research, like I said,” her voice turned conspiratorial. “Apparently there’s this thing called adlayada? Because I’m thinking, dancing and celebration and getting drunk, sounds like a good time to me.”
Don had no words. He clutched the key in his hands, cherishing the weight of it, the scalloped edges digging into his palm. He wanted to tell Robin she was beautiful, she was amazing, that nobody had gone out of their way for him like that before, not outside the line of duty. Instead he cleared his throat and asked: “Tonight?”
“Come pick me up at eight,” she offered. “We’ll grab dinner and go somewhere fun. I know some places, and you need to fulfil a few mitzvahs.”
“Right,” he said, and grinned. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” she informed him. “And get ready to tell me the story of the Scroll of Esther. I like that Vashti chick, she sounds awesome.”
Robin would like Vashti, Don thinks. They share the trait of kicking ass and not taking shit from anyone. “Cool,” he says.
“Let yourself in,” she reminds him, then, “gotta go-see you tonight-” and hangs up with a merry click.
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