In first person… Cold potatoes, warm thoughts

I was fortunate to be born into a family that celebrated Chanukah within an Orthodox environment. I was born and raised in New York City. Chanukah time was cold, gray, rainy and dreary.

Two weeks before Chanukah, my dad would bring home a 30-pound sack of potatoes. He put it into my bedroom, which was the coldest room. So there I was with my younger sister, sleeping and living with the potatoes for Chanukah latkes.

My mom had a skin ailment that was aggravated by water, so my sister and I would peel and slice, putting potatoes into a pail of water.

My mom hand-grated the potatoes and onions, and on the first night of Chanukah, the smell of the frying in our apartment was too wonderful for words. My mom also peeled and sliced fresh apples for the applesauce.

Suddenly it was warm, light and frailach on this winter evening.

My father had a chef's hat for the occasion and my mom wore a kerchief, and we stood on line as they passed out Chanukah gelt to all present. My maternal grandfather lived with us and we stood on line for his Chanukah gelt, too. After the ritual, we moved on to the latkes.

This ritual was repeated every year until we married and continued it with our spouses and our children. When they married, they brought their children.

The chef's hat was on and so was the kerchef. The smells, singing, brightness, tastes and blessings are remembered forever.