How to Spell Chanukah...And Other Holiday Dilemmas by Emily Franklin

Author:Emily Franklin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2012-09-18T04:00:00+00:00

TOVA MIRVIS

Chanukah Glutton

THE CANDLES ARE LIT, THE SONGS SUNG, AND THE FRENZY IS UNDER WAY. “PRESENTS!” MY SONS SHRIEK. THEY’VE BEEN PLANNING WHAT THEY WANT SINCE LAST CHANUKAH, SCRUTINIZING CATALOGS, INFORMING RELATIVES, BEGGING, PLOTTING, PLEADING. BY THE TIME THE HOLIDAY HAS ACTUALLY ARRIVED, THEIR GLEE HAS REACHED TOWERING PROPORTIONS. I HAVEN’T EVEN SET THE GIFT-WRAPPED PACKAGES ON the floor when they grab and tear into them with a rapacity I had forgotten they possessed. Seconds later, our living room is an orgiastic banquet of Lego and Fisher-Price, the wrapping paper and ribbons scattered like carcasses around the room.

As responsible, presumably conscientious parents, we, of course don’t buy presents for every night. But in addition to the one or two we buy, there are gifts from grandparents and aunts and uncles, many of whom are at our house for this first of many nights of celebration. As best I can, I ration the presents, stagger big ones and little ones, give books even though, to my writerly embarrassment and chagrin, my older son is of the belief that books do not count as presents. I manage to hide a few gifts for a later date, to be pulled out in moments of parental desperation. I wish we had done what a circulating e-mail suggested: designate one night for big gifts, one for small, one for homemade, one for charity. We’ve tried to emphasize the other parts of the holiday. We’ve donated to local toy drives. My kids know the story of the miracle. They know the blessings and the songs, from the Debbie Friedman Chanukah CD that has played, for the past month, in a continuous loop in our car. But even so, ask my kids what their favorite holiday is, and they will scream “Chanukah!” Ask them why and they will scream the answer with glee.

As the kids construct a miniature city on our living room floor—the Playmobil police station next to the Lego firehouse and playhouse, transportation between them provided courtesy of the Fisher-Price school bus and the giant Tonka dump truck—I go into the kitchen, ready to fire up the frying pan. In this holiday devoid of much ritual, the process of calling my grandmother for her recipe (which I then lose from year to year), and then hand-grating the potatoes and onions makes me feel like it’s Chanukah. But even though it’s her recipe, I’ve never been able to master the delicate lacy latkes my grandmother produces. Mine are thick and hefty, leaving an oil slick on the paper towels where they drain.

I’m determined to eat only one. The week before Chanukah may not be the best time to join Weight Watchers, but a post-baby five pounds has bothered me for the three ensuing years since my second son was born, so long that it’s getting harder to truthfully blame them on a pregnancy. Filled with optimism and resolve, and the impending holiday notwithstanding, I decided to join, bringing home from an introductory meeting and weigh-in my

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