Although I have a Hebrew name—Rebecca—I’m about as Jewish as the Blarney stone. In fact, most of my ancestors hailed from Ireland/Scotland, with a sprinkling of French and Native American. However, in spite of that ethnic mélange, or maybe because of it, I pursue culinary traditions from a multitude of cultures, including that of the Ashkenazi Jews who eat the golden brown potato pancakes known as “latkes” during the Hanukkah festival.
As a newcomer to latkes last year, I went online to research the process, and when I did, I came across an article by Aaron B. Cohen in the Dec. 22, 2008 issue of The Jewish Star called, “A Latke by Any Other Name.” It was so wonderfully descriptive and hilarious that I immediately adopted it as my sacred text for latke-making.
I hope Mr. Cohen will forgive my plagiarism, but I want to share some of his remarks with you (you may find the full article at this link). It is only by following his detailed notes and rich ethnic humor that I can evoke the true spirit of Hanukkah to properly guide my shiksa hands through the process.
Mr. Cohen begins by whetting your appetite for a taste of the perfect latke:
A great latke never hides behind applesauce or sour cream; it invites them over for dinner. It tangos with brisket, plays footsie with green beans. It has your guests beg for more. A really great latke has enough oil to consecrate the Temple, produces enough heartburn to last only one day, but leaves a taste in your mouth for eight. A divine latke is a nes gadol, a great miracle, and has the face of Moses fried on.
Isn’t that great? He goes on to list ingredients and measures, but there are some specific things he wants you to closely observe, such as the use of olive oil:
Olive oil. Not butter, not canola oil, not peanut oil. Where do you think Jews come from, Alaska? Do not cook with Pam (unless you’re married), this is Chanukah!
His notes concerning the heat, the length of cooking time, the texture, and the color of the batter are as helpful as they are humorous. Here he talks about the amount of liquid to leave in the grated potatoes:
Take this mixture from the food processor and put it in the colander. Get out the excess liquid. Put your hands in (wash them first) and squeeze. Make it cry uncle. Make it say the Shema. Liquid is the enemy up to a point. And then it’s your friend. Your latke needs a little, but only a little.
A light touch is frequently necessary, such as when you are patting down the batter in the hot oil:
Dipping the big metal serving spoon into your batter, drop a big spoonful of batter into the oil. Like you’re patting the head of an infant, pat the top of the batter with the spoon so that it spreads out evenly.
You know are you are almost done when you reach this stage:
Wait two minutes, then flip one. You know you want to. It won’t hurt anyone. No one needs to know. Just do it. Is it golden brown? Do you see the face of Moses? Can you sell it on eBay?
I find that by following Mr. Cohen’s instructions, I am able to produce latkes that are so dense, delicious, and fragrantly spiced that even my Biblical counterpart would be proud. I even feel confident enough to add a biselleh of nutmeg and parsley, according to our own tastes. We especially like them with a sweet-tart spoonful of my delicious homemade cranberry sauce.
Last year was the first year that we made latkes during the holiday season, and we liked them so much that they are now officially on the menu for years to come. It’s also a way of paying homage to one of the world’s great faiths and cultures and remembering the hardships they have suffered while preserving their traditions and famous humor.
Wine pairing: Kendall Jackson Sauvignon Blanc 2008
