This was supposed to be a post about Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights. I was going to write about the fond memories of childhood lighting the menorah with my sisters, marvelling at the way the licking flames from our candles would throw shadows onto dark walls, and how each night, the light from the menorah would grow with each new candle, until the eighth night, when the warm glow from the full row of candles made the frost and snow and chilling cold of wintertime feel far, far away.

Instead, my latkes came out like shit.

It could have been my ingredients, perhaps too moist to allow for proper frying. It could have been my pan, a one-time non-stick that had most definitely seen better (and slipperier) days. It could have also been my technique, using both butter and oil to try to get more flavor.

Regardless, my latkes were failures. They didn’t brown properly, they stuck to the pan, and I ended up with pale, mediocre hash browns.

My ancestors weep in their graves at my incompetence.

I had such high hopes. Humility, thy name is latke.

This is not the end.

The latke shall return.

– Max.

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