Latkes

It’s blue, still glossy, though its corners are frayed, and I grab it every December, the only time I sacrifice myself at the altar of the root. I can hardly believe I am doing it again, after the previous year, and the one before, and the one before that. From my station, where I drink red wine by the deafening sizzle of two skillets as they seize the grated mush and transform it into food, I catch distant glimpses of flames in the living room fireplace. Guests float in and out, some joining me at the stove for a time, others offering small plates of food they prepared and schlepped through the dark slick night. My children rotate in and out, flanked by their friends in search of treats: tall young men with hungry eyes politely awaiting my invitation, lanky teen girls tossing their shiny hair out of the way as they grab and devour the freshly made pancakes.