LATKE NEUROSIS

My introduction to Chanukah latkes at the tender age of three was, sadly, a less-than-joyous occasion. The Chanukah party, always hosted by Tante Leah, was a bacchanalia of yontifdik foods, a platter of her potato latkes at the center.

O how I loved those latkes. They were sodden, thick, greasy – the fantasy of a three-year-old who already weighed 33 kg. How much better could yontif be?

That was, until we made the trek home. Five minutes into the ride, my grandmother would announce, “Feh.”

“Feh, what?” my mother would ask.

At that, my grandmother would launch into her harangue. “Leah’s latkes. Feh. Spongy. Greasy. Oniony. Not like Bobbe Rochel’s. Bobbe Rochel’s were lacy and brown. Just like mine.”

This was likely the origin of the conflicts that I have borne for the last 57 years. How could I dishonor Bobbe Rochel and even my own cranky grandmother by pretending to prefer “lacy, brown” latkes, when my heart pined for “spongy, greasy” ones?

The ensuing years of my youth did not treat me much better. The first time I experienced Chanukah latkes in Talmud Torah, I knew instinctively that something was not right. They were forebodingly grey and dismal. You see, they were not of potato at all, but made from buckwheat. Buckwheat? I do not know from whence in Yehupetz Mrs. Ginsburg came, but I do know that she deserved to be suffocated in a mountain of kasha.

Tentatively, I have learned to deal with my neurosis. How do you like your latkes? Sugar? Applesauce? Cinnamon? Sour cream? I bathe mine in ketchup. As much as I can tell, I am the only member of an international cabal who likes to watch latkes bleed, not shimmer. I have met only consternation from friends and family. Too bad for them.

This, though, is my ultimate solution. A block away from my house stands a dingy goyische eatery . . . but . . . they serve wonderful “potato pancakes.” There is always a bottle of ketchup on the table. I douse them, and nobody cares. Then, my muscles bulge. I strike a valiant pose. I radiate nobility. And I say to myself, “Ah, this is how Judah Maccabee must have felt on the 25th of Kislev!”