The Sacred Family Latkes

I come from a family that has strong feelings about latkes.

Meaning, according to the family patriarch, a.k.a. my Dad: there is a correct way to make them.

To veer from this correct latke path is to inflict the same dismay and even personal harm upon him (and probably the entire tribe of Jewish People ) as Italians, when somebody puts ketchup on pasta. Or G-d forbid, pineapple on pizza.

You think I am joking.

There have been heated disputes, nay, almost brawls, in my family, at Hannukah time, regarding the correct oil (never, ever olive oil) the correct heat, (very high) the correct way to grate the potato (never with a cheese grater, only with a special paddle for potatoes, with a wire grid.)

So when I asked my Dad for the sacred family latke recipe this year, that I might make them and impress my boyfriend Max, who is German, I was not shocked to discover that his recipe arrived in the form of 8 pages of explicit instructions.

8 pages.

For latkes.

But first we had to wait for this massive, 8 page Latke instruction PDF file to open, and we were very hungry, so in the meantime, Max—who is a far better cook than me, already started grating the potatoes.

With a cheese grater.

“Oh! Lol. Sorry darling, it says here only with a potato—“

“They’ll be fine like this!” he said cheerfully, grating away.  “We’ll order the potato grater for our next round!”

Meanwhile, Dad’s PDF latke instruction file is still opening.

“It’s just like in Germany with kartoffelpuffer” Max explains, squeezing the egg, flour and potato mix in a cloth. “You want to drain all the water out with a cheese cloth so that the latke won’t be soggy.”

Reader, I refrained from telling my sweetheart that while they may look similar, a latke is not a kartoffelpuffer.

I refrained.

At that exact moment Dad’s PDF file opens.

It reads: “ IMPORTANT: do not drain all the water out or you will get a dried our latke! Leave some water in.”

I put my hand on Max’s shoulder.

He shrugs. “ We can just put in a third potato, and leave that water in.”

I am starting to feel warm and sweaty now.

Hershkowitz. Seriously? Are you seriously getting anxious up about a latke?

Not Max, though, he is whistling happily, bustling around the kitchen. He pours what appears to be a mountain of sea salt into the latke mix.

“WHOA!” I yelp.

He looks at me.

“Oh. Sweetheart sorry sorry sorry. Just it seems the recipe calls for 3/4ths a teaspoon of salt….”

“Darling.” He says gently “Look how much potato is in there. It needs more salt then that. “

“Why don’t you grate the third potato?” he suggests, evenly.

I nod, and grate the third potato on the forbidden cheese grater, while watching Max ignore my family’s 8 page latke bible.

I am calm. I am calm, it’s only a lat–

“OW” I shout.

I am now bleeding profusely. Durring my nervous potato grating, I have grated the skin off my middle finger.

Max runs to get the first aid kit, puts a band-aid on.

The oil is bubbling hot in the pan now.

Grapeseed oil, because it fries well, and doesn’t impart an aftertaste. ( Back in the day they used Crisco.)

Max forms the latkes into patties.

look from the patties to my iphone at the PDF and hoarsely croak out

“ It says here to ladle the mix with a spoon into the hot oil…”

“Next time, darling!”

I have now almost decapitated my finger due to the stress of watching my sweetheart blatantly disregard my family’s most holy document, our latke PDF.

But they do smell good.

“Lets have them with caviar or smoked salmon!” he suggests. “ Or we could put some of this green tomatillo salsa on it.”

I put my hand on my heart.

“Applesauce.” I whisper, weakly.  “Applesauce and sour cream are usually how latkes…are…eaten…Not….not that other stuff.”

We sit down solemnly to eat.

Knife and fork are cutting the latke.  I put a golden, fried little piece into my mouth.

Reader, it is perfection.

It is crispy and golden on the inside, it is not the slightest bit dried out, the salt is the perfect amount, it is neither greasy nor heavy and they are thrillingly, piping hot.

My German sweetie has made a latke *while ignoring the holy email document* that  a.) tastes divine and is b) veritably everything a latke should be.

I even taste one with green tomatillo sauce and sour cream.

“This isn’t bad with salsa, honey”

Max smiles discreetly behind his plate.

Our first Hannukah miracle.