From Latkes to Seaweed and Rice

“Mom? Can you make latkes?”

Thirty years after I asked my mom the exact same question, my daughter is standing in the kitchen asking me. She came home from kindergarten full of information about Hanukkah delivered that day by her friend Josh’s mom. She told me about the menorah, about the shamus candle, how to play dreidel. But mostly, she told me about latkes. And donuts. “They’re donuts and they’re filled with cream. And they eat them because they’re cooked in oil and oil kept the lamps burning. They’re DELICIOUS.”

When I was growing up on Long Island in the 1970s my “ethnic” friends were all single-culture. There was Diane, whose father came from Germany. Their house was filled with head cheese, sausages and a sour cream pound cake that I begged my mother to get the recipe for. Francesca Persichetti — I still love saying her name — had a Nona who didn’t speak English and filled their home with the scent of sugar and vanilla from the endliess supply of lacy pizzelles she pulled off her waffle-iron.

Since it was Long Island we all ate bagels, but my Jewish friends also had this exotic sandwich called “cream cheese and jelly.” My girlfriend Sharon ate this day and night, but I confess, I still don’t like it. My friend Jamie’s family escaped Eastern Europe during World War II and though our friendship faded well before junior high my memory of watching her Bubbe put whole onions and chicken liver through a grinder that she turned by hand became a mild obsession. For years I tried to crack the code of the mouth-filling flavor that came from that grinder. I finally hit it when I learned about schmaltz — chicken fat. Today when I make chopped liver people ask what deli I bought it from. Thanks, Bubbe.

Like me, my daughter has already discovered that food is the key to understanding who these friends are, what’s important to them, what histories and stories they carry in their genes. The difference is that her friends often have a mom and dad from completely different cultures. That kid Josh? Well, his dad is Jewish, but his mom — the one who gave the Hanukkah presentation — is actually Filipina. And she sends Josh to school with Mexican quesadillas for lunch (of course mine were dubbed inferior and, like my mom sent off to get that sour cream pound cake recipe, I’ve been dispatched to discover what fills Josh’s tortillas.) My kid came home from the neighbors the other day — mom: Korean, Dad: not Korean — and reported that there were “delicious noodles” for lunch. Her best friend Sophia is African-American and spent her babyhood in Korea, where her parents were stationed with the Army. The first time Sophia had dinner with us, I made fish, peas and sweet potatoes. She ate well and politely, then told me “I didn’t really like this.” I asked her what she does like. “Seaweed and rice.” So last week, I sat with these two adorable girls, an African-American child and an Indian-born girl being raised by a Syrian-American mom and Indian-American dad — and watched them fold rice into their seaweed. They chased it with impressive amounts of miso tofu. For dessert: gingerbread cookies.

Their world is the natural progression of mine on Long Island all those years ago. Since then, the cultures that I knew individually have mixed and merged, to the point where their lines have become almost invisible. And once again, the place where they crossed — and are crossing still — is at the table.

“Mom? Can you make latkes?”

Thirty years after I asked my mom the exact same question, my daughter is standing in the kitchen asking me. She came home from kindergarten full of information about Hanukkah delivered that day by her friend Josh’s mom. She told me about the menorah, about the shamus candle, how to play dreidel. But mostly, she told me about latkes. And donuts. “They’re donuts and they’re filled with cream. And they eat them because they’re cooked in oil and oil kept the lamps burning. They’re delicious.”

When I was growing up on Long Island in the 1970s my “ethnic” friends were all single-culture. There was Diane, whose father came from Germany. Their house was filled with head cheese, sausages and a sour cream pound cake that I begged my mother to get the recipe for. Francesca Persichetti — I still love saying her name — had a Nona who didn’t speak English and filled their home with the scent of sugar and vanilla from the endless supply of lacy pizzelles she pulled off her waffle-iron.

Since it was Long Island we all ate bagels, but my Jewish friends also had this exotic sandwich called “cream cheese and jelly.” My girlfriend Sharon ate this day and night, but I confess, I still don’t like it. My friend Jamie’s family escaped Eastern Europe during World War II and though our friendship faded well before junior high my memory of watching her Bubbe put whole onions and chicken liver through a grinder that she turned by hand became a mild obsession. For years I tried to crack the code of the mouth-filling flavor that came from that grinder. I finally hit it when I learned about schmaltz — chicken fat. Today when I make chopped liver people ask what deli I bought it from. Thanks, Bubbe.

Like me, my daughter has already discovered that food is the key to understanding who these friends are, what’s important to them, what histories and stories they carry in their genes. The difference is that her friends often have a mom and dad from completely different cultures. That kid Josh? Well, his dad is Jewish, but his mom — the one who gave the Hanukkah presentation — is actually Filipina. And she sends Josh to school with Mexican quesadillas for lunch (of course mine were dubbed inferior and, like my mom sent off to get that sour cream pound cake recipe, I’ve been dispatched to discover what fills Josh’s tortillas.) My kid came home from the neighbors the other day — mom: Korean, Dad: not Korean — and reported that there were “delicious noodles” for lunch. Her best friend Sophia is African-American and spent her babyhood in Korea, where her parents were stationed with the Army. The first time Sophia had dinner with us, I made fish, peas and sweet potatoes. She ate well and politely, then told me “I didn’t really like this.” I asked her what she does like. “Seaweed and rice.” So last week, I sat with these two adorable girls, an African-American child and an Indian-born girl being raised by a Syrian-American mom and Indian-American dad — and watched them fold rice into their seaweed. They chased it with impressive amounts of miso tofu. For dessert: gingerbread cookies.

Their world is the natural progression of mine on Long Island all those years ago. Since then, the cultures that I knew individually have mixed and merged, to the point where their lines have become almost invisible. And once again, the place where they crossed — and are crossing still — is at the table.