Hanukkah

I’m a California Jew. If one were to compare ethnicity in terms of packaging, we’d be ‘plain wrap’. Both my folks were Jewish, but Mom was an Atheist and Dad, well,  he grew up in the little town of Chloride Arizona and Grandpa Harry was the Sheriff.  Once, when I was a kid, I brought a stray cat into the house. Dad hated cats. The center of his face turned purple with rage. “You git that ornery varmint outta here!”  Get the picture?

Then I met my salt of the earth, “Philly bro” husband who promised his father on his deathbed that he’d have his kids bar/bat mitzvah’d, what the fuck was I gonnna do?

I joined a neighborhood Temple. By the way, our house is literally straddled by Temples. Sephardic (the building and the inside is breathtakingly gorgeous) the Conservative and the Reform. Guess which one we chose? Also, it had a renowned Mommy and Me program.

When we attended the first Shabbat as a family, I was nervous.  I wore a dress. That was me ‘towing the line’. I didn’t know what to expect.  What I liked about our Temple was that it was modest.  Still, I was worried  my uncouth manners would make me an outcast OR get us kicked out.

As Chad and I were hurrying across the street to the Temple, I said “Now look, we’ve got to be really, uh, you know, polite.” “What’re you talkin’ about?” he said. “You’re the one with the sailor mouth.” It’s true. You hang around Comedians long enough….

My husband is on active duty in the US Army, and for our first holiday season together we were living in a little town called Sierra Vista, Arizona, which is adjacent to Fort Huachuca, where he was stationed.  Since we had only been married since the previous January and we were just starting our life together, we couldn’t afford to go home to our beloved California and our families for the holidays, so we were toughing it out in Sierra Vista alone. 

Being Jewish, no holiday season was complete for me without my mom’s fabulous potato latkes, and by Christmas Day (which also happened to be the last night of Hanukkah), I was feeling pretty down at the prospect of the holiday season passing without them.  My husband, wanting to make me happy, suggested that we make them for Christmas dinner.  Since he is Christian and had never had potato latkes before, I thought this would be a wonderful way to introduce him to a delicious new food and also to merge our holiday customs and traditions together, setting a precedent for the years of holidays to come.  I enthusiastically agreed.

I don’t make a lot of kugels.  I don’t make them because my kids don’t really eat them and as much as I want to eat the whole tray, it would take me a month to work off the calories.  My grandma used to make them all the time.  What I loved most about her kugels were the left overs.  

The following day, for breakfast, she would cut off a slice, put some butter in a saute pan and literally pan fry the slice of kugel.  Like the kugel really  needs anymore butter than it already has.  Yet, it is a childhood memory that is rests comfortably on my tastes buds.

My sister-in-law, Tammy is the official kugel creator in our family.  She makes them all time and her 3 kids devour it.  Tonight, my kids experienced kugel for one of the first times (in the past, they  have turned their noses up at it).  They are kugel converts. This kugel would make anyone a convert!

I am guilty of eating seconds.  It is that good!

For dinner on the first night of Hanukkah my mother always started with a romaine lettuce salad topped with scallions and Lawry's French Dressing. Then there was a brisket of beef with carrots and mushroom gravy. But the real stars of the meal were the latkes served with apple sauce and sour cream.

My mother's latke recipe was handed down from her mother: grated potatoes, eggs, flour, a little salt and pepper. She'd fry them in vegetable oil and serve them as soon as they were browned. So simple and yet the result was so soul-comforting: crispy on the outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of oil and salt. There are few dishes that are as satisfying as food and so emotionally evocative.

Like most kids, my sister, Barbara, and I waited eagerly at the table. As soon as the plate full of latkes was passed around, we emptied it. I kept count, because I didn't want her to have more than I did. They were that good. When my grandmother was in town, she and my mother made Hanukkah dinner together. Their relationship was competitive to say the least, so there was always considerable discussion about the right way to make the latkes: flour vs. matzo meal; onions or no onions. My grandmother liked to point out that she had given my mother her latkes recipe but my mom insisted that she hadn't remembered it correctly.