On the Fourth Night, There was Dinner

Tonight was the fourth night of Hanukkah.

We haven’t lit any candles until tonight when we had our kids and a dear friend over for latkes. We weren’t exactly beaten down by the world’s goings-on but not inspired either. The first three nights of Hanukkah were dark around here.

But I know this much. A day of cooking will make things right.

At dinner, my older son asked me if, when I cook, I cook with feeling. He asked as a lead-up to a funny story he wanted to tell but I considered his question and then pointed to the table. This, this right here, these are my feelings. Take a picture of it, I told him. Don’t worry about the people. Just take a picture of the food.

I made a beautiful dinner. Last night, my older son brought me a nifty red appliance to shred potatoes for latkes. My younger son figured it out and shred about thirty potatoes and a bunch of onions for me. I consulted my notes from last year about ingredients and portions, written on the pages of a cookbook that is falling apart at the seams. That’s how long it’s taken for me to get it right.

I fried dozens of latkes. And when they were done, I stood them on end on paper towels, like you’d arrange files in a filing cabinet because last year, just last year, somebody told me this is how you keep latkes from being greasy. A lesson learned after forty-two years.

Our friend lit the candles. We gave everybody a whistle, and a flashlight, both meant to draw attention to what’s right and what’s wrong. These days you never know when you might need one or both.

Here is my dinner. It was beautiful.