A Whole Latke Love

Despite having the figure and body fat percentage of an athlete, Sylvia is proud of her latkes. She uses the recipe she learned from her own mother while growing up in Montreal. "It's more of a proportion than a recipe," she explains, specifying the number of potatoes and amount of matzoh meal per egg.

She says she has two secrets, and shares them willingly (anything for the good of the grandchildren). First, she separates the eggs and beats the whites. "Fluffy isn't quite the right word for them, but they are light," she says. And she always grates the potato by hand. "Ah! Shorter strands!" I'm thinking. Well, that and a little bit of guilt: "I always say you get about five drops of human blood in every batch," Sylvia says.

Finally, a real live person to address the questions that the books don't answer: What kind of potato? Sylvia uses red or white waxy ones (though I later found starchier russets and Yukons work as well). What kind of oil? "I suspect my mother used Crisco, but I just use a bland vegetable oil." How does the frying actually work? (I am not of the generation for whom "fry the latkes" is as clear an instruction as "preheat the oven." I need specifics here.)

Well, Sylvia explains, it's not quite a deep-fry, but it's close. The oil needs to be deep enough to come about halfway up the latke, so about a quarter-inch or a little more. It should be hot, but not smoking. It's ready when you can bounce a drop of water off the surface. The batter will be thin enough that you can drop it by large spoonfuls and it will spread into two- to three-inch patties. Serve them, of course, with very good applesauce and maybe some sour cream.

I try out the recipe on my husband and a friend, someone who also gets a little nostalgic for fried foods around this time of year. My husband pronounces these, his mother's latkes, perfect (of course). But my friend prefers my (now more practiced) version of the 2nd Ave Deli cakey latkes. I watch as a distant memory takes hold of his mind; I can almost see it getting clearer as he chews. "A meat grinder!"

His own mother used to put the potatoes through the meat grinder, turning them into pulp. So we make another batch, hand-grating the potatoes on the raspy side of the box grater (the otherwise useless side you've always wondered about) until they are just about liquefied. A call is placed to his mother in New York: What to do with all that extra liquid? We drain just a drop of it, making the thinnest batter yet. It plops with ease into the hot oil and the result is a batch of lovely, chewy, fritter-like cakes, extra crispy and brown.

And there it was: the perfect latke—for him.

The lesson here? Call your mother already.

Grandma Lusia's latkes

· 2 large or 4 medium potatoes

· 2 eggs

· 2 tablespoons matzoh meal

· A bit of grated onion

· Salt and pepper to taste

· Canola or other vegetable oil

Peel and grate the potatoes by hand. Then wrap in a tea towel and squeeze hard to remove excess water.

Separate the eggs. Beat the whites to a soft peak.

Stir the egg yolks, matzoh meal, onion, salt, and pepper into the potatoes. Fold in the egg whites lightly.

Fill a heavy pan with about a quarter- to a half-inch of canola or other mildly flavored vegetable oil. Heat until a drop of water bounces on the top. Drop batter with a serving spoon into the oil, forming patties about three inches across. Turn the latkes when the bottom seems firm enough to turn (they should be quite crispy and dark brown).

Remove when second side is crispy. Drain on a cooling rack turned upside down over a thick layer of newspaper.

Latkes can be frozen and reheated in a 350-degree oven.