This year, Hanukkah has begun later than is typical. Because Jews subscribe to a lunar—as opposed to a solar—calendar, our holidays cannot be reliably predicted by the calendars used by most of the world. Over the course of time, I have seen Hanukkah fall in November, in December, and in January.
I am delighted that Hanukkah started so late this year, because after writing last week’s “Christmas memories,” I felt it only proper to share some Hanukkah memories as well.
Hanukkah was a pretty big deal at my house. Although we certainly never saw any Christmas décor at home, my father took pity on us, surrounded as we were by the sights and sounds of Christmas, and decorated lavishly for our own holiday. Paper menorahs, paper dreidels, and Jewish stars hung from the ceiling in the family room, as did strings of blue-and-white lights, determined to be the proper colors for Hanukkah. My parents had an adult-sized menorah, and my brother and I each had our own mini menorahs, the sort that could accommodate only birthday-sized candles.
There are many variations on gift-giving at Hanukkah. Most of my friends received presents on each of the eight nights, but the Shufton kids did not. Each night, after dinner, we would troop into the living room, where my father would station himself at the piano and we would sing the traditional Hanukkah blessings as we lit our candles. Immediately afterward, my father would play more Hanukkah music, which we were required to sing with him. We sang all of the songs each and every night.
Following the requisite singing of Hanukkah music, my mother provided my brother and me with a “Hanukkah treat.” The treat typically consisted of a single piece of candy, as my parents were not enthusiastic about feeding low-value foods to their children. But the “no candy” rule was briefly suspended during Hanukkah, leading to my childish suspicion that Hanukkah was the Jewish version of Halloween.
Only on the very last night of Hanukkah, menorahs firing on all cylinders, having wrung the last notes from “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” and “Rock of Ages,” did the presents appear, a reward for having muscled our way through seven previous nights of lighting candles, saying prayers, singing the same 10 songs over and over, and sucking on a single piece of candy.
My parents never gave us toys for Hanukkah. Musical instruments, yes. Books, absolutely. Art supplies and sporting goods, check. But no toys. They didn’t countenance low-value, noneducational gifts any more than they believed in stuffing children with nutrient-free foods.
My parents threw at least one mega-Hanukkah party each year, a festive event featuring brisket (Jewish-style, with gravy, not with barbecue sauce) and potato pancakes, referred to as “latkes.”
As any Jew knows, if you gather five of us together, you will hear five opinions on the best way to prepare and serve potato latkes. Some folks like their latkes served with apple sauce. I have heard that some people actually dress their latkes with honey or syrup. I personally find the notion of pouring syrup on latkes disgusting. My parents would have deemed it unforgivably goyish (a Yiddish term referring to the habits and practices of gentiles). I prefer my latkes hot, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, well-salted, and served with sour cream. No sweet condiments for me.
One Hanukkah, in the run-up to her annual Hanukkah party, my mother prepared her brisket marinade, consisting of who-knows-what mysterious ingredients. The marinade was in a huge roasting pan on the kitchen table. As my mother bent over the stove, fussing over one holiday dish or another, I lazily dragged my index finger through the marinade, enjoying the Zen of making figure-eights in the mysterious liquid.
Suddenly, my Zen was shattered: “Vickie Lynn! Get your hands out of that marinade NOW.”
As all children know, parents only invoke your middle name when you are in big trouble. I removed my finger from the marinade promptly, but when my mother turned back to the stove, I gave my finger one final swoosh through the marinade—a youthful act of defiance, a child’s attempt to have the last word.
Don’t ask me how this happened, because to this day, I have no idea: The entire pan of marinade fell on the floor. I stood there, up to my ankles in marinade. My mother turned from the stove and screamed. A high-speed chase ensued as my mother pursued me throughout the house, hitting me with her wooden spoon whenever she was close enough to get in a lick.
Bruised and chastened, I was ordered to my room, there to spend what sounded like a really great party in silent contemplation of my misdeed.
But my mother, not entirely indifferent to the suffering of her miscreant child, brought me a latke on a plate, accompanied by sour cream. In consideration of the fact that I had dumped her marinade on the floor, and she had to clean up the mess and then make a fresh batch, I was not provided with a slice of brisket. On the following day, however, she prepared a mighty brisket sandwich for me, on a hard roll, with a cup of gravy on the side for dipping.
That happens to be my favorite way to eat brisket, so the holiday was not a total loss.
Most latke recipes are relatively similar: shredded potatoes, shredded onion, some flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and some beaten eggs. The ingredients are combined to make a starchy batter, which is then fried by the heaping tablespoon (the kind with which you stir soup in the pot, not the kind you use to eat the soup in your bowl) in hot oil.
Here is Mom’s recipe for latkes, which I consider flawless:
Ingredients
- Two large russet potatoes (about one pound, peeled and cut to feed into a food processor)
- One large onion (eight ounces, peeled and cut into quarters)
- Two large eggs, beaten
- One carrot, peeled
- Half cup of all-purpose flour
- Two teaspoons coarse kosher salt (or one teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling)
- One teaspoon baking powder
- Half teaspoon black pepper
- Vegetable Oil for frying
Recipe
- Using a food processor with a coarse grating disc, grate the potatoes, carrot, and onion. Transfer the mixture to a clean dishtowel and wring out as much of the liquid as possible. This is very important, or your latkes will be soggy. This is my one variation on Mom’s recipe, because food processors didn’t exist when I was growing up. In those days, potatoes, onions, and carrots were grated by hand on a big box grater, ensuring that at least a portion of one’s knuckles would end up in the bowl.
- Working quickly to avoid oxidation of the potatoes, transfer the mixture to a large bowl. Add the beaten eggs, flour, salt, baking powder, and pepper, and mix until the flour is absorbed.
- In a heavy pan over medium-high heat, pour in enough oil to fry the latkes—maybe a quarter inch or so. You may need to add more oil as you fry batch after batch of the latkes. Once the oil is hot (if a small blob of batter sizzles when dropped in the oil, it is hot enough), use a heaping soup spoon to drop the batter into the hot pan. Best not to crowd the pan too much. Use a spatula to flatten and shape the mounds of batter into discs. When the edges of the latkes are brown and crispy, about five minutes, flip. Cook until the second side is browned, about another five minutes. Transfer the latkes to a paper towel-lined plate to drain the excess oil, and sprinkle lightly with salt while still warm. Repeat with the remaining batter.
If you are preparing latkes for more than a few people, you will need to double, or even triple, the recipe. My mother always put the finished latkes on a wire rack in a warm oven so that they wouldn’t be cold by the time she was done with the whole batch.
Traditionally, apple sauce and sour cream are offered as condiments.
Please do not adulterate my mother’s latkes with pancake syrup. I am begging you.
So fire up those menorahs, get out the dreidels and the foil-wrapped Hanukkah gelt (chocolate coins), and schlep out the food processor, potatoes, and plenty of oil.
Remember that latkes pair nicely with brisket, but for God’s sake, no matter how badly tempted, resist the urge to run your fingers through the marinade.
Happy Hanukkah.
