The Latke Queen

and the latke gene. and my sweet Auntie Sarah

This is Sarah Rackusin, one of my father’s (beloved) sisters (the other being Ella Smith, who was “famous” for her cheesecake and “snowball” cookies). I was so lucky to have them; I wish I could tell them that now; I hope I managed to let them know, in whatever way I could, then.

Auntie Sarah loved to cook, she exuded kindness, and lived to 96. Until her last days she was always at the ready, no more than a moments notice needed, to fry a few latkes. I mean, she would plan to serve a roast chicken, then look at the hot, golden-skinned bird from from the oven, and you could see her thinking: “looks delicious, but needs latkes alongside”. Then she would get out the potatoes and the grater.

Look at her in the photo, standing in her San Francisco kitchen, a smile on her face as she tastes a bite of her crispy handiwork.

I didn’t grow up eating latkes; my mother never fried them, probably because she didn’t grow up eating them either. Her father, my grandfather, had been a California healthfood pioneer and frying didn’t exactly enter the freshly squeezed, juiced, organic way of his new life.

How I never ate Auntie Sarah’s latkes as a kid, I don’t know. We were several hours away by car, so perhaps thats the explanation. But didn’t anyone I knew make a latke party when I was growing up? So when I went to Israel for my year abroad, I discovered latkes. In the run-up to and during the 8 days of, Channukah, latkes were sold on the streets, along with other fried things. The smell of hot fat and frying potatoes, crunchy brown potato crust, the almost creamy potatoey insides. Yes. I fell in love, but I’m pretty sure I was programmed to fall in love with latkes—at first bite I was overcome with wonder: how can this be ONLY potatoes and onion? (well, and a little egg, maybe flour or matzo meal, but you get the picture). The first time I made latkes myself, as a neophyte cook, I felt as if I was connecting to a genetic inheritance: Go, go, Marlena, go out into the world and grate potatoes! I’ve tried my best to adhere to this promise, this pact, but am not now nor will I ever be, The Queen. There is only one Latke Queen, and that’s Auntie Sarah. Every potato I grate is an ode to her.

While you can eat latkes any time of the year, they are a speciality of Chanukkah, the Jewish midwinter celebration of freedom, rededication, and the festival of lights. It is traditional to put the lit menorah in the window, which I find deeply touching. Here is our menorah, lit for the third night.

Below is our menorah lit for the 5th night, several years ago, in the company of our dear departed Jake. If he looks like he is in a hurry to get down, know that I had just fried a big platter of latkes and he was eager to head into the kitchen.

The photo below is the full last night of the festival menorah, all of the candles lit, in the window with its reflection, lighting the darkness.

Because you’ve probably cooked—and eaten—your fill of potato latkes already this year, that once a year latke-taste might be growing old. Tonight is already the fifth night, the holiday will soon be over, but I’m not ready to give up latkes yet.

Now, when you are so full of potatoes you could plotz yet you can’t say no to another little crisp fried pancake, there is no law saying it must be potatoes. Any vegetable will do; in fact, the original latke is said to be no vegetable at all, but rather a puffy fluffy pancake from Italian Jewry, based on ricotta and as light as their potato cousins are…robust.

The history of latkes, while long and fascinating, is that of Ashkenazi heritage, even though the potato came from the western hemisphere to Europe in the 16th Century, and wasn’t eaten confidently, depending on the country, for quite awhile.

The basic tradition of fried food for Chanukkah, is simply to eat oily foods; reminding us of the miracle at the Temple in Jerusalem, when a small amount of oil that was only enough to last 1 day only, miraculously lasted the 8 days it took for fresh oil supplies to arrive; the small amount of oil kept the eternal flame burning long enough for the now-defiled Temple to be re-consecreated.

Frying is simply a way to emphasize the oil; it forms an edible link to the core of the observance itself: the oil represents the miracle. So, fried things it is, then. In Israel, its soufganiyot, or jelly-filled doughnuts that embrace the national taste of Chanukkah. So much so that for awhile I thought they were Sephardic; after all, Moroccan Jews have their doughnut-like sfenj, Greek Jews celebrate with fried honey-balls aka loukamades. But no, soufganiyot have a heritage from Eastern Europe as well, right down to the jelly filling, fruit jams being very sought after and food-fashionable several centuries ago when the jelly-donut came into being.

But its the savory that I’m usually drawn to, as always: Indian pakoras; Roman carciofi alla Giudea. In fact one of these days instead of a latke frying party, I’m tempted to make an artichoke frying party. One of these days. Meanwhile, all of the vegetables that can be made into a batter and fried are here for us: the herbs and leaves of Turkish pancakes; the shreds of vegetables other than or in addition to potatoes—celery root, carrot, beets, sweet potatoes, etc. My favorite is zucchini.

So, lets go back in time, way way back, to….1974. Were you even born yet? That was the year that I started to write my first cookbook, at age 17 (it didn’t get published until a few years later). While next Chanukkah I hope to get my newsletter posting started earlier with all sorts of toppings and variations, right now its late in the 8-day festival, and zucchini latkes are just so good, I don’t want you to miss an opportunity to enjoy them.

Below is the recipe, in my hand-drawn and lettered cookbook, Naturally Good. Grab your zucchini and you’re good to go.

PS: Sometimes I add cheese to the zucchini latkes. Feta for a Turkish/Greek flavor, grated white cheese such as fontina or gruyere, or a drier cheese such as Parmesan, Grana Padano, or an aged pecorino, for a crisper pancake. Oh, and the 1/2-1 teaspoon sweet basil? I suspect it was dried; I hadn’t yet discovered fresh. Add your own fresh, or choose another herb such as dill, mint, parsley, chives/green onions, even cilantro/coriander or Thai basil.