I started trouble.
I guess it's because I miss writing for an audience. And also, I hate feeling like the "other." I don't know why, since we've been "other" for 5700+ years. But maybe it's just the pandemic and the not working thing.
Anyway The Washington Post did a story on latkes and it just started me off. Why latkes? It's always latkes. And I ended with a brief line about that old antisemite, Santa.
Let the backlash begin.
Meanwhile, I got into a nice conversation with a nice midwestern Jewish lady who is also from Ukraine/Odessa. Such a small world, the Jewish one. We're comparing Jewish traditions and trying not to upset the goyim.
Always. Don't upset the goyim! I can hear my grandfather. I don't know if he actually ever said that. His phrase was actually, "Shh! The people downstairs!" Because he was a landlord, and lived on the top floor, and we were noisy kids. We wore shoes. My cousin Elaine and I chased each other all over that tiny three-room apartment. We moved chairs and climbed in closets and emptied drawers, searching for secrets. Sometimes we found them.
Sometimes I can catch a whiff of something that brings me back to Hopkinson Ave., and Grandpa's apartment. Or across the street to my other Grandpa's house. It's a parking lot now.
Anyway, sometimes I'll smell something cooking and WHOOSH. I'm five years old and stuffed cabbage is on the stove. The aunts are gossiping in clusters. Doesn't matter which side of the street... it happened on both sides. The uncles are smoking. Cousins are playing, inside and out. I had lots of cousins, and that's why I loved visiting my grandparents. Tired of one side of the street, cross over and visit the other side. Homemade food was king on both sides. Tea and cookies or cake or both were guaranteed. Warm hugs and lots of attention, ditto.
In my memories, people are alive. No one is in jail; no one is not speaking to their siblings. In my memories, there are no family secrets, just love. Tons of love. No whispers, no outrage. As a child, what you don't know is your security. Nothing hurts except a scrape on the knee.
So what if Santa skipped our house? We had latkes. Homemade.