A humble potato, a wire rack, a glass of chablis.
I pour a glass of white to steel myself
for a Hanukkah night alone.
I remember Mom’s goldenrod kitchen never smelling of food,
yet, my ears remember Song Sung Blue.
The eldest, I poured the freezer-burned rounds from box to baking sheet every year.
Thud. Latkes with no heart. No soul.
Mantra: Potato, onion, oil, matzo meal.          Divide, toss, repeat  Â
       Grate, chop, peel.                     Divide, toss, repeat                       Â
My shaking hands boxgrate,
transforming russets
to salt mounds waiting for an icy night.
Juice squeezed from the tea towel makes a tiny lake flung to the sink.
Ribbons re-fluff.
Tears mingle with minced onions.
Matzah meal meets egg with a pinch of kosher salt.
Every so often an angel goes rogue, leaps from the rim of the slotted spoon with the salt or meal.
Sip. Let sit. Sip. Sip again.
Batter to balls to wet rounds.
Slowly slide to sizzle. Fry to golden.
Swaddle in paper towel.
Applesauced or sour-creamed,
eat while hot, if not,
they blacken, harden, shrinking to the rounds of my childhood.
Four candles burn.
Latkes’ charred edges crumble.
Oily fingers pour another.
This poem is part of a series of Hanukkah poems, with one for each night. For the entire collection, contact Cantor Karen Webber.
