Hanukkah
A memoir by Lorna Sass

When I was a kid growing up in the suburbs of Long Island, the focal point of Hanukkah was always the presents, and I eagerly looked forward to receiving eight of them — one each night. It was only when I got older, became a food reporter and began interviewing Jewish cooks that Hanukkah took on its deeper meaning of miracles, freedom and survival.

I had learned in Hebrew School that Hanukkah commemorated an important event that took place over 2000 years ago, when the Jewish people were victorious in their battle against an edict forcing them to worship Greek gods. When the Jews went to offer thanks for that hard-won victory at their temple in Jerusalem, the worshippers found only enough oil to provide light for one day. When this oil miraculously provided light for eight days, leader Judas Maccabeus proclaimed an annual eight-day Festival of Lights to commemorate the miracle. Over the past few centuries, the custom of serving foods fried in oil evolved as the culinary symbol of the oil that provided such long-lasting light.

When I was 10 or so, it was difficult to keep all of this history in mind. As we lit the Hanukkah candles each night, I was more focused on the presents I would receive after dinner. Typical of many Jewish families, on the first night we always had meltingly tender brisket, which my mom made in a pressure cooker. My dad, who rarely cooked, was always in charge of making the potato latkes. Dad's latkes were always crisp on the outside, moist within and never greasy — a result more difficult to achieve than I realized at the time.

When dinner ended and the time finally came for presents, I was often disappointed. Since there were eight nights, Mom could be unoriginal about choosing gifts. Sometimes I received a much-wanted game or toy, but more often it was a dreidel, a spinning top with a Hebrew letter on each side. This might be accompanied by a net bag of Hanukkah gelt, the gold-covered chocolate money that we used for betting games involving which side of the driedel would face upwards when the top stopped spinning. When we tired of the game, we gobbled up the money!

In 1981, I interviewed Edda Servi Machlin, whose book, The Classic Cuisine of the Italian Jews had just been published to great acclaim. Mrs. Machlin grew up in the small Tuscan town of Pitiliano. She told me that on Hanukkah, the Jews of Pitiliano traditionally lit oil in eight small wells sculpted into the Italian version of a menorah, a triangular, bronze Chanukiya that hung on a wall. Pitiliano's large and active community sang the Hanukkah prayer in Hebrew with a melody unique to them. Instead of the brisket and potato latkes enjoyed by the Ashkenazic Jews of my Eastern European heritage, Italian Sephardic Jews of Iberian heritage celebrated Hanukkah with an appetizer of thin pancakes folded over a zesty tuna filling and a main dish of fried chicken and eggplant caponata. For dessert, they feasted on Frittelle di Chanuka, deep-fried, yeast-puffed, flour fritters studded with raisins and drenched in honey.

Lighting the Chanukiya for Mrs. Machlin and her children has never had much to do with presents. Rather, the celebration of Hanukkah is a deeply felt thanksgiving for the gift of light and life. The Machlin family was devoted to carrying on the traditions of Pitiliano, singing the Hebrew melody that few survived to recite after the community was decimated during the World War II.

After this meeting with Mrs. Machlin, Hanukkah took on a much deeper meaning for me. I no longer even think about gifts or Hanukkah gelt. And as I prepare my own version of latkes (mine are zucchini-potato with cranberry applesauce), I call to mind Jews all over the world who celebrate the holiday according to their own culinary traditions.

Then, when it comes time to light the candles, I give thanks that my own community is free to celebrate the holiday in whatever way we wish.

Lorna Sass
Learn more about Lorna at LornaSass.com.