One of the most curious notions concerning the festival of Purim is the concept of Adloyada - a drunkenly-slurred reference to the following quote from the Babylonian Talmud, (Megillah 7b):

“Rava said: It is one’s duty to make oneself fragrant [with wine] on Purim until one cannot tell the difference (ad d’lo yada) between, ‘cursed be Haman’ and ‘blessed be Mordecai.’”

Many Jews take this talmudic dictum literally, and you’ll never see as much sincerity surrounding drunken revelry as in many a shul on Erev Purim. As the cantor of a suburban shul where Purim is focused as much on our kids’ sense of merriment as our own, I can’t very well break down the doors of perception using Manishewitz as my own personal peyote during the congregational megillah reading. No, I have to find some other way to get at the subversive heart of adloyada - a way to spin my world upside down for one brief moment each year, to gain new insights into our world through the temporary reordering of our religious and cultural norms. But how?

I consider myself to be a pretty green individual. I drive a Prius, have solar panels on my roof, helped start a CSA and use eco-cleaning supplies whenever possible. I would like to help our planet stay green and verdant for the generations that follow, and don’t mind spending a little more time, effort or money to do so. But once a year, when Purim season rolls around, I turn my green-ness on its head. Green becomes the color of envy and greed, of corporate America, of flowing fields of corn (syrup), of, well, a crass, calorie-laden commercialization of Irish culture known to citizens of our Fast Food Nation as the Shamrock Shake^(tm). Every March, thanks to the synchronicity of Purim and St. Patrick’s Day, I’m able to indulge in my own little bit of March madness by driving all over the metro-New York area in search of any McDonald’s that might still carry this elusive holiday-themed treat, which was largely phased out in the mid-90’s.

For those of you who are older than 45, or younger than 25, you may not understand the power that this minty beverage (if you can call a triple-thick milkshake a beverage) has over the average gen-X’s sentimental consciousness. Do a quick google-search for “shamrock shake” and you’ll see all manner of fan sites, blogs, and even news articles written about this gift from Uncle O’Grimacey, Grimace’s Irish cousin. The McRib may have come and gone, the McDLT was just a passing fancy, but the Shamrock Shake was there, each March, lending a comforting rhythm to the fast-food landscape; in its own perverse way, it was our seasonal cuisine. Obviously, relying on McDonald’s as a storehouse of societal and nutritional significance is not a healthy way to go. One of the reasons that I passionately support the ideals behind our CSA is that I feel it’s important to advocate for a different way of life, for my family and for our society. But my silly quest for a fast-food frozen dessert at the end of winter is a way of reminding me not to take myself too seriously.

At its heart, the message of Purim is the danger of arrogance. It leads Haman to the gallows, and, yes, even Mordechai treads precariously (tantalizingly?) close to despotism when he dons the royal garb at the end of the megillah. So I don’t get drunk on Purim. I shut my eyes, and, well, grimace through the sweet, minty-vanilla brain-freeze, until I remember that I can’t always tell the difference between “blessed be Whole Foods” and “cursed be Wal-Mart.”