Leslie Richmond Simmons

Fifty-one weeks of the year ‘Dora’s Menorah’ sits patiently on a shelf in the19th century mahogany breakfront in my sister’s dining room. Dora was our great grandmother on our mother’s side. My sister, Donna, was named to honor her memory. 

Two brass lions, symbols of Judah, mighty hero of the Hanukkah story, stand on both ends of the menorah, welcoming each nightly candle, until all eight are lit and glowing.

The aroma of grated potatoes, mixed with onions, eggs, and flour, sizzling in oil, making latkes, always filled the house as family members gathered together every year to celebrate. My sister used a green electrîc frypan, a wedding present from years before, stored in the basement with rarely-used appliances, to make the latkes. We all took turns grating and stirring and flipping them as they cooked.

Presents wrapped in stunning shades of shiny paper all secured by swirls of colored ribbons piled at the front door. Once unwrapped they revealed treasures unimagined, as the cousins squealed with laughter and delight, passing everything around for all to scrutinize and envy.   

Memories of my childhood Hanukkah celebrations were triggered by these gatherings, reminding me of my mother’s handmade dreidel-shaped, cardboard, glittered letters, spelling H A N U K K A H, that hung yearly in our living room window.

The cousins are grown now and starting their own traditions. The electric frypan is gone, but the latkes remain a favorite, especially when the Hanukkah candles are glowing.