I Make My Latkes from Scratch

I make my Latkes from scratch. Rather, I make my Latkes from as close to scratch as any mere suburban-living human dares to get. I did not create the Heavens and the Earth to get the proper soil nor spark into existence the evolution necessary to create the DNA required to grow the proper variety of Russet Potatoes. I purchased the potatoes, the eggs and the matzo meal from the store. I have thought of raising my own chickens, but I am not sure my house is zoned for that. If I come across a potato that is beginning to sprout, I tend to set it aside with the intention to plant it. It never seems to happen, maybe next year.

I do, however, spend enough time peeling and grating potatoes before putting them into the batter with egg and matzo meal that, at least in my own way of thinking, I can proclaim that I made them from scratch.

The Latkes I make are not the Latkes I grew up with.

The potato pancake of my childhood came from a box. They would be thin, a little bland and either slightly underdone or burnt, if it was my Mom cooking them. They will always be nostalgic to me, but not really Latkes.

I am giving my son different childhood nostalgia and I take some pride in that.

He watches me peel the potatoes with the peeler used by his great-grandmother and mix the batter by hand. Up until two years ago, he would cover his ears when the potatoes went in the food processor. The food processor broke and I have not had the money to replace it. I now grate the potatoes by hand. Occasionally, I slip and have a close call with my fingers. Making Latkes from scratch carries some hazards.

A few years back, my niece asked to learn to make Latkes. She brought out a paper, pencil and a box of potato pancakes mix.

I said, “No, honey, we don’t use any of that for this.”

You make Latkes from scratch and from memory. You feel your way through every year. Just as every year is different, so is the Latke recipe for that year.

That is how I learned from my Mother in Law, who made Latkes in a completely different, yet fundamentally the same, way. Hers were always from scratch and never written down. She would blend it all together. I prefer to grate the potatoes separately and mix by hand. I remember the first time I made Latkes for her, how she was physically struggling to hold back her commentary and trust in my process. She paced the kitchen, looking over my shoulder and wringing her hands. She was surprised at how well they turned out in the end.

My father, of blessed memory, would say how my Latkes made him nostalgic for the Chremsel his Grandmother made. It was not the taste, because they are two very different potato pancakes, but the process. I have learned how to make Chremsel since, but he passed before I could make them for him.

In my Latke journey of return, I looked through many actual recipes and talked to a lot of people. Every family seems to have their own unique Latke, one that has evolved through generations. Making the Latkes became my new ritual of connection to past ancestors and love for my present family that I never expected to find. Making my Latkes from scratch has become one more way to warm the chilly winter season during a holiday that literally focuses on bringing more light to the darkest time of year.