It was tradition in my father's family that every first night of Chanukah my grandparents would have a huge dinner at their house for the lighting of the menorah. Kasha varnishkis, matzoh ball soup, brisket, and, of course, latkes. My grandmother, may God rest her soul, made the crispiest, most mouth watering latkes a kid could hope for, from scratch of course. After dinner came the dreidel game, which my brother, my cousins and I elevated to new heights of competitiveness involving eye-bulging amounts of chocolate Chanukah gelt.
My mother's family's Christmas traditions were similar, with the menu including simmis, baked ham, and more perogies than you could shake a stick at, instead of the kosher meal at dad's family. Instead of playing dreidel we strung popcorn to hang on the gigantic Christmas tree, holding contests to see who could resist eating the popcorn the longest. Instead of Chanukah gelt we gorged ourselves on candy canes. Either way, my brother and I were always well-fed at the Holidays.
Growing up in a large suburb just south of Miami meant that my family and I had to take State Road 836 into the city proper. From there we'd either keep to the right and end up on the 874 to get to my mother's Catholic family, or keep to the left and end up on the 826 to get to my father's Jewish family. I always thought of the 836 as the Road That Divided My Family.
During the Holidays in 1986, when I was 10 years old, the 836 proved to be more than just a dividing line between The Family Where No One Understood Yiddish and The Family Where We Couldn't Admit That We Ate Pork. My mother's sister Margaret, having just returned home from a business trip somewhere up north, had come down with a miserable flu bug three days before Christmas. Dinner that year was up in the air. Would it happen? Would Aunt Margaret be better by Christmas Eve? Should we just cancel the dinner and make ham sandwiches at home? To be on the safe side, my grandmother postponed the big ham and simmis dinner until the 26th. She figured the traffic would be easier to handle the day after Christmas, anyway. The problem for my family was, though, that the first night of Chanukah fell that year on - wait for it - Friday December 26th. What to do? My parents had a solution, and even now I have asthma attacks just remembering it.
We drove up the 826 first, to light the Chanukah candles then have brisket, kasha, and latkes. We left dinner early, my father explaining that he wanted to beat the Friday night traffic home. My brother and I were excited for our Christmas dinner at last, but we also didn't want to miss the dreidel game. Two of our cousins had defeated us out of three sacks of gelt the year before, and we were out for some serious revenge. Chucking the Chanukah presents from aunts, uncles, and grandparents into the trunk of the car - more than once accompanied by the sound of breaking glass - we sped off to the 836. We nearly collided with about 10 Mack trucks as we crossed five lanes of traffic in under a mile on a Friday night in Miami. Cars honked, tires screeched, people yelled things I was too young to understand, and, at the time, I could have sworn that I saw my life flash before my eyes. Years later, my dad swears that it wasn't as bad as I remember it, but I've compared notes with my brother since then and we're pretty sure that our dad violated at least a dozen different traffic laws that night. I think the skid marks from his car are still on the 836 to this very day.
By the time we got to mom's family, my poor little brother, who got motion sick just walking to the mailbox, was positively green and ready to throw up. I, meanwhile, was huddled in the corner of the backseat, trembling, my knees pulled up to my chest and my asthma about to kick in. But we made it. We scrambled out of the car and threw ourselves headlong into my other grandparents' house, just in time for ham and perogies. Of course, not one of the four of us wanted to admit that we had just eaten, so we stuffed ourselves, again. I don't think that to this day I've eaten so much food in so little time. I was glad that I had already seen my cousins in their Nativity play, because the thought of forcing my poor bloated stomach to endure those unforgiving hard wooden church benches was just too much for me that night. God bless Pepto Bismol and ginger ale. And God bless the soft, pliant couches of my grandparents' living room.
I fully blame this incident for the time when, years later, I accidentally brought a ham and cheese sandwich to my job as a camp counselor at the Jewish Community Center.
Lucky for me and my poor digestive system, by the time another year rolled around when the first night of Chanukah fell close to Christmas Eve, I was away at college. My brother called me up on Chanukah to ask me how many dinners I had eaten that night. The minute he said it I felt queasy, but I smiled anyway. It could be worse, I told him. At least both our families don't celebrate the same Holidays - imagine if we had to go through that every year! Poor kid, he had to take a Dramamine when I said that.
And just for the record, my brother and I are still the #1 dreidel team in America. And, we can string the most popcorn in our family without eating any of it. Most of the time.
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