Latkes

                It was the fifth night of Hanukkah. We’re not Jewish—Mark attends Quaker meeting and I am a lapsed Catholic Transcendentalist, but I love Hanukkah—and latkes. It was latke night tonight.

                When I first moved to Oregon, my roommate was a Jewish guy. He was a great roommate; we agreed on food, politics, and music. We kept the kitchen kosher by simply not eating meat—not a great sacrifice on my part, because the cat’s food did not count. The first year out, I went home for late December, but, the second year, I was broke. The transition across the country had been hard. I was not used to the unrelentingly grey days and nights; winter in New England was bright. I struggled to find a decent paying job. I really missed my old job, where the weeks before Christmas were packed with prep, laughter, and hard work. My holiday rituals, which I had carefully considered and sorted a few years before,  felt out of place and had to be negotiated with my roommate. On Christmas Eve, I was pretty depressed and sprawled on my bed when my roommate stuck his head in the door.

                “Do you want to come with me to Hanukah?” he asked. He had been “adopted” by a Jewish clan on the other side of Portland and often visited on Friday nights.  I hesitated.  “You’ll feel better,” he added. I agreed, changed my shirt, and put on my Santa Claus earrings.

                The house was packed. Children ran everywhere. Adults talked. Holiday  music blared over the conversations. Candles were shining in the windows. The kitchen was steamy and smelled of frying oily potatoes. Everyone was glad to see my roommate—and me. One little kid skidded up to me, looked at the Santa faces and asked “Are you Christian??”   “Kind of,” I replied and he ran off. It was lovely.

                So, every year, we eat latkes for at least one night during Hanukkah. It has become another acknowledgement of the returning light in darkness, as that evening was for me.   I slice half an onion as thinly as I can, run an apronful of russet potatoes from the back yard through the cuisinart, toss in two fresh eggs, a handful of flour, salt, and pepper, and mix it all up. We bring up applesauce from the basement and make a green salad. I find the blue and white Chinese bowls for sauce and sour cream and fry the latkes in safflower oil, using my big cast iron pan. And we feast by candlelight— as many candles and holders as there have been nights. This year, we had five small silver stars floating in a blue bowl.  Their light shone long after dinner was over.