Back when my parents were growing up in Morocco, the end of Passover wasn’t just a family affair—it was a neighborhood celebration. Kids would race from house to house—everyone did—greeting neighbors with cheerful cries of “terbah,” a blessing in Arabic meaning “may you win” or “may you be successful.”

Every home offered a spread: delicate crepes called mufleta drenched in honey and butter, cookies bursting with pistachios and walnuts and delicately scented with rosewater, sticky dates filled with marzipan, almond pastry cakes, and couscous steeped in butter, milk, and cinnamon. “You couldn’t leave without tasting something at every house,” they’d recall, remembering a Moroccan tradition that embodies the spirit of hospitality and the joy of the evening.

Growing up in Montreal, the tradition of Mimouna continued, though far from the sun-soaked streets of Morocco. In our home, it was more than just a celebration—it was a vibrant expression of identity, memory, and joy. While my Ashkenazy friends’ parents........

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