Dear Friends,
For reasons I’ll explain shortly, I’ve been thinking about one particular aspect of the upcoming Hanukkah festival more than usual this year—the latke.
As is so often the case in Jewish life, it is the food—the smells and the tastes—that evoke memories of holidays long past. (In the case of latkes, the impact lingers long after the last one is eaten, thanks to the thin layer of grease coating virtually every surface in the kitchen.)
But it turns out that the humble latke is far more than a ritual food connected to the legend of the cruse of oil—a legend, it’s worth noting, that was written centuries after the actual historical events of Hanukkah.
So let’s take a brief dive into the history of the latke.
The classic connection between latkes (or, in some communities, sufganiyot) and Hanukkah grows out of the story of the oil that miraculously burned for eight nights, even though there was only enough for one. But the story goes deeper. In fact, the history of the latke is, in many ways, the history of the Jewish people themselves: creative, resilient, and able to take whatever the world hands us and turn it into something sustaining.
What may surprise you is that the “classic” latke isn’t nearly as ancient as we might imagine. Latkes first appeared in medieval Europe, but they weren’t potato pancakes at all. The earliest latkes were actually cheese pancakes. This tradition is connected to the extra-biblical story of Judith, who used salted cheese, wine, and remarkable courage to defeat a Syrian-Greek general and save her people.
But Judith’s cheese pancakes aren’t the end of the story. When those early latkes appeared, the miracle of oil was already part of the holiday, but potatoes hadn’t yet arrived in Europe.
When they finally did, Jewish communities quickly adopted them as a dietary staple. Over time, cheese pancakes gave way to potato latkes, not for ideological reasons, but for practical ones. Potatoes were inexpensive. Our ancestors were poorer than we can easily imagine, and much of what we now call “traditional” Ashkenazi food reflects a cuisine born of scarcity. Moreover, potatoes thrived in harsh climates and could last through long winters. They were affordable, reliable, and nourishing. And so potato latkes became a delicious and practical way to honor the miracle of the oil.
Ultimately, our “traditional Hanukkah food” was born not from abundance, but from necessity. Not from luxury, but from creative adaptation. Our ancestors looked at what they had, and instead of lamenting what they lacked, asked a powerful question: How can we use what is at hand to bring more light into the world?
In the end, the latke reminds us that miracles often begin with something small and simple that was already there all along.
Which brings me back to why I’ve been thinking about latkes this week.
Monday evening will offer a beautiful, thoughtful, and, I pray, spiritually fulfilling way to celebrate Hanukkah through learning and candle lighting.
On Tuesday afternoon, we’ll gather at Ricalton Square in Maplewood at 6:00 pm for our annual SOMA Community Candle Lighting.
And then, at 7:00 pm, we’ll swap applesauce (the only truly appropriate latke topping) and sour cream for hot sauce as we do our own TSTI take on Hot Ones.
We’ll sample latkes, hot sauces, drinks, and nosh—and then, in true Hot Ones fashion, TSTI member Nick Mandala will put me in the hot seat. Nick will interview me as we top our latkes with increasingly intense sauces. There will be a raffle, plenty of laughs, and, who knows where the conversation will go as the sauces go from hot… to hotter… to “OMG why did I put that in my mouth?”
May the light we bring into the world, whether by candle or by frying pan, remind us that miracles often begin with something small, simple, and already in our hands.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy Hanukkah,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen