How to Fry A Potato Latke
Each December, my mother fried potato latkes, and thereby took part in the suffering of the Jewish people. Powered by the convert’s zeal, she’d scrub the squat potatoes clean, her hands raw and red in the sink. As Christian mothers trimmed trees, she grated onions; as her Catholic relatives went to mass, she counted the burns on her forearms. Catholic guilt is one thing, but Eastern European cuisine is another.
My father lacked her faith, but as a self-declared “food Jew” he was strictly observant of Gastronomical Judaism. Hanukkah wasn’t Hanukkah without latkes; in fact, Hanukkah was an excuse for latkes, buttressed by a vague military back-story about Jewish oppression in Syria. Much the same with Purim (triangular cookies; Jewish oppression in Persia) and Passover (matzo ball soup; Jewish oppression in Egypt.) In keeping with the themes of food and oppression, my childhood preference for any food was directly proportional to the pain it caused my mother. I adored latkes.
To prepare them, my mother followed a recipe that violates a handful of Geneva Conventions. After the potatoes were scrubbed and peeled, she’d grate them into a bowl, losing a knuckle or two in the process, then mince a legion of onions to follow. In later years, she bought a Cuisinart, which spared her the agonies of prep work. It was also outfitted with a French Julienne blade, to which she credits her unusually crisp latkes, with their snaky, browned tentacles of potato. Into the starchy mess, my mother cracked an egg or two, then a dash of salt and pepper.
At this point, she’d urge me away from the counter, instantly fixing my interest. She rummaged through the cupboard until she found the right appliance—it looked something like an electric frying pan—and poured in a heart-stopping quantum of oil. Within minutes, the viscous surface began to pop and sizzle. Latkes are made with oil to commemorate the miracle of the Eternal Light, a sacred temple flame that is never extinguished; the Jewish Mother street cred is strictly incidental. Unblinking, she spooned potatoes into the pan, then leapt back as it sputtered, merrily freckling her arms with hot oil. Under the tempest of oil, the potatoes browned; the perfect scent of onions rose into the air. My father and I hovered. My mother flipped each patty, barely wincing.
When a pancake had exacted sufficient torture, she fished it out with a slotted turner, then laid it to rest on a plate draped with paper towels. There, it blissfully relieved itself, staining the towels translucent with oil. My mother set me to work laying out placemats and settings; my father began to ransack the fridge for sour cream and applesauce, which he slathered onto each latke, liberally, in the tradition of our people. By the time my younger sister was walking, she claimed the job of picking menorah candles from the box, a job for which I, with my deft color sense, was eminently more qualified. Drama ensued.
Somehow, my mother remains, in my memories, above the fray. She silences the TV and sits down at the table. My sister and I settle in our chairs; my father, ogling the latkes, has long since been there. My mother’s eyes are bright as she lights each pastel candle, and begins to sing the Hebrew blessings. Her voice is girlish, as are ours, but she is intent on the words as she sings them. My father doesn’t sing. Instead, he watches us, content, waiting for the blessings to end. “Amen,” he says, and then, “Let’s eat.”
Otium
