A Hanukkah Miracle

For years, it was my fate to slave over the ol' latke pan, making batches of crispy golden pancakes.  Such a fine latke-maker was I, dishing out slice after slice of heaven, that I came up with a lofty goal.  I'd work my way through the 1.5 million latke recipes that exist worldwide, one recipe at a time.  Call it overly ambitious, or slightly deranged, but I like a nice challenge now and then, and this seemed like a good one.  And so, every Hanukkah, I'd stand there like a fool, shredding potatoes until my fingers bled, chopping onions until I cried, and singing, "I made you out of clay" until coyotes howled in the distance. I'd fry and I'd splatter.  I'd count and I'd tabulate.  "All this work and I've only made a dozen.  What gives?"  In the process, I'd go through eight rolls of paper towels and set off, not just our smoke detector, but those of our neighbors, too.
By my 50th b'day, as I calculated my many lifetime achievements and polished my vast array of awards -- the Nobel, the Pulitzer, the Good Housekeeping Seal -- I realized that latke-wise, I was far from attaining my goal.  In this latke scenario, I was no Julie Powell.  Her year-long march through Julia Child sounded almost doable, compared to my endless ordeal.  I had a freakin' long way to go.  What was I thinking?  Finally, it came down to this:  Did I want to spend the next 50 Hanukkahs making latkes and earning faint praise?  "Pretty good" and "yummo" can only take your ego so far.  "Best latke ever" would've been better, had anyone bothered to say it.

And so, I asked myself, "What would Mom do?"  I knew the answer immediately.  She'd turn it over to a high power.  I found mine at Trader Joe's.  What started as a well-kept secret -- "Trader Joe's has the best frozen latkes on the planet!  Keep it to yourself!" -- went viral a few years back.  Come Hanukkah, they can't keep them in stock.  This year, I called ahead.  "Have you got you-know-what, or did you run out?" I asked, fearing the worst.  "Hang on, let me check," said some random dude.  A minute later, he returned with an update.  "I found three boxes.  You want 'em?"  "Hell, yes!"  "You better get here now."  "Can you put them aside with my name?"  "For a sizable tip, I can do anything."  "Done!"  I said.  I jumped in my car, cashed an Israeli bond and parked on a side street.  I was too charged up to handle the kamikaze parking lot.  Once inside, I raced to the frozen section, knocking over old ladies and young children, only to find one box of the covetted latkes.  In despair, I started kicking the side of the case and cursing.  Just then, a young man in a Hawaiian shirt approached.  "Carol?" he said.  "I'm the random dude on the phone."  I smiled knowingly, reached into my handbag and handed over the gelt.  Out of thin air, he produced two more boxes of latkes.  It was a Hanukkah miracle.  I went to hug him.  He backed away.  "Be cool," he said. 

I zoomed home and preheated the oven.  Soon we gathered round the menorah and my youngest, five years post-Bar Mitzvah, needed assistance with the prayer.  "What comes after baruch ata adonai?" he asked.  "If you don't know by now, I'm not telling you," I said, and brought forth the latkes, so greasy and delish.  "Oh!" hubby said. "Unbelievable!"  The 18 year old chimed in, "Best latke ever!"  I felt a pout coming on. "Trader Joe's?" hubby asked.  "I'd rather not say," I said.  "Pass the applesauce."