"Love You a Latke"

Mom enjoying her latkes

I recently went through some old family videos of our holiday celebrations over the years. I always find watching the chaos and commotion of the kids so much fun. The piles of presents and the hours spent watching everyone open their gifts seemed exhausting at the time, but what I loved even more was our family tradition of making and eating potato latkes! A small batch of the potato goodies turned into platters and platters of the fried deliciousness! There was always plenty left for both me and my         brother and we usually kept eating them until we couldn’t move

Latkes are traditionally cooked on Hanukkah, along with other fried foods, to commemorate the miracle of the menorah oil lasting eight days in the Jewish Temple.

In my family, we had a tradition of making latkes and having a huge family Hanukah party every year. I loved all of the food and the presents, and I just recently found out how this tradition began.

Apparently, two of my Bubie's (yiddish for grandmother) brothers had been drafted into the Russian army and sent to opposite sides of the country to fight. Their family, who lived in the town of Belarus, figured they would never see them again because of the hardships of the war and the landscape of Russia. By coincidence, both of her brothers arrived home on the 5th night of Hanukkah, surprising everyone. They had a huge celebration cooking up latkes and trading gifts together. Since then, the tradition has been carried on every year in our families!  

Latkes can be topped with most anything, but our condiments of choice were sour cream and applesauce. (As a kid, I wouldn’t let the applesauce touch the sour cream, but love it all mixed together now).

When our son was born, my husband decided to carry on the latke-making tradition in our family. With our then 6 month old in the kitchen playpen, Jack instructed him on the step-by- step process, and has made latkes every Hanukah since.

Latke maker extrodinaire

All ready to help make the latkes

It’s a tradition that makes us feel close to family, even though we live in different places around the country and around the world.

This year was no different. But having moved from our house to a smaller place, we had trouble finding all of our typical “tools” of the trade. (because when you make latkes, the whole neighborhood knows from the smell).  The cookbook with our dog-eared latke recipe was stuffed in a box in our storage closet, but we finally dug it out. Making them fresh is the only way to go!

Some years we shred the potatoes; some years we chop them. More egg, less flour. More salt, less pepper. Fewer people, but we did our part eating the latkes. 

Still has the seal of approval

We all live in different cities and even different countries, but the latkes always connect us. 
Carrying on a tradition that takes me back to my childhood, I love that our kids and now our grandaughters are still eating the crunchy potato latkes and in some way, honoring their ancestors from 100 years ago in the process.

"Great Balls of Matzo..."

   

It's Passover, and who doesn’t love matzo ball soup? It’s the staple of every Jewish holiday, and a delicacy in both delicatessens and high-end restaurants. Jewish mothers swear by its healing powers and the “hard” vs “soft” matzo ball debate has raged for centuries.

  If you grew up in a Jewish household or have Jewish friends, you most likely have a relationship with the dish. Even our favorite Italian restaurant in St. Louis has the soup on their menu. 

   It’s a simple dish in theory; matzo meal, eggs, and oil to make the dough and roll into balls. Chicken soup to cook them with, and maybe carrots, celery, and a little onion and seasoning. But….the nuances of each recipe can make or break the taste.

  My Bubbie (Yiddish for Grandma) used schmaltz or chicken fat in her matzo balls and made the soup from scratch. I probably didn’t appreciate the depth of flavor that the fat added to the soup at such a young age, but I remember it being delicious.

   In later years, my mom and aunt would either make the matzo balls and buy the broth, or order it from the grocery store. It always tasted the best on Passover because, after sitting through and hour and a half seder (Passover service), the soup was usually the first course eaten.

    I love most food homemade, but I have to confess, I have always used a packaged soup mix for my matzo balls and added a few tweaks. The matzo balls were light and fluffy and the broth was rich and flavorful. My kids loved it growing up, and I kind of prefer it to homemade, even now. But the first time I made it, I rolled the balls into golf ball size before I cooked them. I didn’t realize that they would “grow” in the boiling broth and ended up with six-inch diameter meteors.

    

However,  what I remember most about matzo balls was the song. My father was always the jokester, and every Passover he would make me, my brother, and my cousins sing the “Matzo Ball Song” before he would let us eat dinner. It was a silly song, but it became such a big part of our family tradition, that all new family members had to participate. My husband, my sister-in-law, my kids; they all had to sing for their supper too.

I think Dad sized up our potential spouses by their willingness to participate.

   

   Years after he passed away, my mom came to visit us on Passover. Since our close friends include us every year in their family and friends seder, my mom was excited to celebrate.

   The meal was beginning, and some friends went into the kitchen to help. Just as mom was telling the group about the matzo ball song, one of the guests spilled an entire bowl of matzo ball soup he was serving directly onto my mother’s head. She was fine; no burns or injuries, but she swears it was Dad letting her know he was watching.

   Any time I’m ready to enjoy a bowl of the soup, the tune pops back into my head with a picture of my Dad, like a band director, making us all sing along:

“I wanna be a matzo ball,

And swim in the middle of the chicken soup.

And float down on a noodle,

Right to the bottom of the whole caboodle.

And when I’m tired and I get kinda hungry,

I eat me a matzo while I’m floating on my tummy.

I wanna be a matzo ball,

And swim home for Pesach (Passover)”

Happy Holiday to all!!

This year, at our virtual Zoom seder, I sang the song to my granddaughters, hoping they will sing the silly song too.

"Turkeys In Vegas..."

   

Thanksgiving was always a big family affair when I was growing up, and the food and festivities continued with my husband’s family for many years.

Once we moved away from family, we celebrated with friends and their families. It was always my husband’s favorite holiday, particularly because of the dishes his grandma and mom always made on Thanksgiving.

When my mother-in-law passed away about a month before Thanksgiving in 2009, we all were reminiscing about past Thanksgivings; sad that we wouldn’t have anymore of the his mom’s holiday food. As we talked about the traditional Thanksgiving and what we planned to do to celebrate that year, we all looked at each other     and said, “Why do we need to stay in town? Let’s go to Vegas!”

   As harsh as that might sound, it was the perfect remedy for preventing an epic holiday disappointment. After all, we’d all be together, we’d see great shows, have fun, and best of all, eat well. But not turkey and cranberries; it would be steakhouses and sushi, and our motto became, “F*** the turkey, we’re going to Joe’s” (the amazing,  Miami/Chicago,/Las Vegas  restaurants, famous for their incredible stone crabs and steak).

   To top it off, as soon, when we got to the hotel, we saw that Stevie Wonder was giving a concert that weekend. I have every one of his albums and had never seen him in concert; and although my kids grew up in the 80s and 90s, they have listened to his music since they were born.

   The holiday began with the amazing Thanksgiving meal at Joe’s (sans turkey). First course was what Joe’s is most famous for; cold jumbo stone crabs with a mustard sauce like no other I’ve ever had, followed by salad and steaks and even their amazing fried chicken, ending with a key lime pie that beat any pumpkin pie I’d ever eaten. Then, I got to bask in the music of my favorite artist with my family by my side. It really doesn’t get any better than that.

   

That weekend began a celebration with our son and daughter and our son’s then girlfriend, now wife as the nucleus of our new tradition. We shared fun and food in a new way, and I was truly thankful for the fact that we all really WANTED to be together!  We went back the following year and my daughter-in-law even had t-shirts made with our new motto “Forget the Turkey, We’re going to Joe’s!”

Since then, we have happily spent every Thanksgiving together. Last year in Chicago, and this year in St. Louis, with new and innovative flavors and recipes, the feeling is still the same. We love what we grew up, but, even more so, we love what’s ahead!

Happy Turkey Day!