A Poem About Latkes

The Thing About Latkes.

The thing about latkes is that there is only one right way to make them.
(Your ancestral way is the right way. So is mine. There are many one right ways.)

The thing about latkes is that every year they are different and every year they are perfect.
(Even the burned ones are perfect. Even the raw ones.)

The thing about latkes is that you must have them with the Only Appropriate Topping.
(Applesauce is the Only Appropriate Topping and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.)

The thing about latkes is that they must always have a little grated skin in them.
(Or tears from onions, or matzah meal, or too much salt.)

The thing about latkes is that you can only make them from potatoes.
(In space they will cultivate small potato crops for just this.)

The thing about latkes is that you can and should make them from anything.
(Cheese is traditional, as is buckwheat fried in schmaltz. Zucchini are acceptable, eggplant is right out.)

The thing about latkes is that everyone has their own thing about latkes.
(Even non-Jews have things about latkes. Sometimes the only thing you have about latkes is that they are tasty.)

The thing about latkes is that they are all you need for dinner.
(This is disputed, some say they need salad, others soup, still others fried chicken.)

The thing about latkes is that they came to this holiday late, that the ingredients are hardly European, that frying them in the same oil as lit the menorah is less than 100 years old.
(This doesn’t matter, they’re as old as a single light against the darkness where it counts.)

The thing about latkes is that some of us don’t eat them.
(Some eat waffles, others fried chicken, sfinj, gulab jamun or deep fried Oreos.)

The thing about latkes is that they embody home.
(Sometimes that embodiment means being as far from what should have been home as you can.)

The thing about latkes is that they are best eaten on their own.
(Those who make them the base of a canapé are not Wrong, as much as they are wasting their time on tiny latkes.)

The thing about latkes is that latkes mean exactly what you need them to in any given year.
(This year to me they mean warmth, comfort, and my ability to only set off the smoke alarm once during an entire fry session.)

The thing about latkes is that the tiny crispy bits that come off when ladling batter into the pan are the best bits, full stop.
(The only person who gets to eat those bits is the one doing the frying. I didn’t make the rules, I just follow them.)

The thing about latkes is that I have just eaten a plateful, and now I have a cat in my lap.
(All is right in my small microcosm of world.)