(by Elizabeth Cohen and Aviva Lilith)
Some dishes come with tasks easily divided among generations and between family members. For Hanukkah latkes, the division of labor is easy. One person grates; the other chops. One stirs up the flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and cracks a couple of eggs; the other stirs them into the potato and onion mixture. It’s a team sport, it goes fast, and it sets us sailing on a raft of memories, both beautiful and bittersweet.
In the beginning, it was the mother who chopped and grated because the girl was too little for the knife, grating with the “big side” of the grater so that potato pieces would stick out around the sides. But the girl could measure and stir up the other ingredients. It’s especially fun for a little girl to crack eggs. Inside each delicate oval is a yellow surprise, and for many years, yellow was the girl’s favorite color. The color of sunflowers. The color of daisies. The color of a certain beloved dress, grown out of but still kept on a hanger in her closet.
While they were frying latkes, the mother talked to the girl about the plight of the native peoples of the world, the mysteries of the pyramids, and mathematical questions like pi (3.1444444444, etc.).
The girl grew older and took over the grating, and eventually the onion chopping. “These onions are making me cry!” she’d exclaim.
The mother smiled, thinking that the girl’s tears were perfect, as they would match their beautiful yet bittersweet lives. Because there were two other people in their latke equation: a father who came and went, and a grandfather whose mind was coming and going. But the annual satisfaction of crunchy latkes, with a choice of toppings (applesauce or sour cream), never went away. It was the secret of the holiday and of time spent together.
The girl and her mother were comfortable living alone with the grandfather, even as his mind grew cloudier. He called the girl “that little guy.” One time he put applesauce into the dish of their dog. But the aroma of latkes in the frying pan seemed to hunt him down and bring back a deep part of him. He would eat them with such abandon and verve. It was heartening to the mother and daughter to see this, as if they were cooking him back to life.
Then came the year that the grandfather was gone. Hanukkah and making latkes remained joyous and yummy. Who could ever eat just one? They often downed three or four apiece. But with no grandfather, something was missing. They looked across the table at one another, noting the empty place where the grandfather once sat.
Eventually, the daughter took over the entire task of latke preparation. It had become obvious that hers were just better than the mother’s. Less greasy, crispier.
The mother and daughter would go to diners with their books and read together over grilled cheese sandwiches. The girl was now a pre-teen with her own friends and, often, other things to do. But the mother and daughter would come together at Hanukkah to make many latkes, eat them, and put some away for the next day, too.
“Want another?” the mother would ask. The question was rhetorical. The answer came in the sound of the plop in the pan of the hot oil. Crunchy chewing. Tart applesauce and creamy sour cream. You really didn’t need to eat anything else with them, because they were perfect.
The Daughter:
My first memory ever of latkes is blurry. I am very young. Were we at Auntie's house? Was it one of her previous houses?
In my memory, I have a paper plate with a latke and some applesauce. I do not want any sour cream. A TV is on, and I sit on a couch eating my latke.
Another time I remember my mom making latkes for breakfast in our house in Plattsburgh, New York. I came downstairs that morning, and there were stacks of latkes. Perfect for a winter day. I seem to recall it was the middle of January. It was as if Hanukkah had spilled over into the new year.
Then there was our holiday party, and many flavors of latkes—cinnamon raisin, ginger turmeric, salt and pepper, three cheese, tomato basil. (Trying out different flavors was right in keeping with the way we roll in general, then and now. We’re both highly creative writers and makers. A typical day for us often includes mosaics, painting, writing, and cooking "experiments.”)
The Mother:
We always invited a lot of people. We wanted to share our latkes. We were not always happy but happy enough.
What makes a good latke is stress and love, adding some magic in the mix.
I probably oversalt just a little.
As time went by, the girl and her mother grew older, and things changed. The girl saw her mother do distracted things, like leave the stove on, and forget to purchase the needed eggs. But they still made latkes at Hanukkah.
The Daughter:
Not often that we work like this,
Efficient, productive, radiant
But when we do it’s legendary
It sparkles, it shines, it burns a little
Like we’ve gotten too close to heaven
Danced with perfection, had a brush with comfort
But latkes suit you well, Mom
The scattered nature of them
The way they are perfectly imperfect
They taste like home
You, with batter in your hair
Burned your hand four times before noon
I take over the latke-making,
I prescribe them black edges
And decide
I’ve found my latke style
You take a taste
Contemplate it like you’re solving a math problem
And you tell me that
You’ve never had a latke so fine
Together we created storms
Somewhere far away
We opened new dimensions parallel to ours
And we rained down latkes
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Elizabeth Cohen is a writer who lives in New Mexico. She can be found at www.elizabethcohen.net.
Aviva Lilith is a hybrid artist and writer who is currently staying in Massachusetts. She can be found on Instagram.
Latkes
6 large Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled
1 small onion
2 eggs, beaten well
1/2 T. unbleached flour
pinch of baking powder
1 t. salt
olive oil for frying
Grate potatoes with the large holes of the grater.
Grate onions with the small holes of the grater.
Mix potatoes, onions, eggs, flour, baking powder, and salt.
Heat 1/2 in. oil in a large frying pan.
Using large spoonfuls, drop the batter into the oil.
Turn when underside is golden brown, and fry on second side.
Makes about 18 latkes.
For a vegan option, use the following ingredients:
2 c. grated potatoes
1 yellow onion, grated
3 T. non-dairy milk
1/3 c. unbleached flour
1 T. cornstarch
salt and pepper, to taste