Shiksa's Christmas Latkes

May 31 | Written By American Baroness

Shalom. Peace be with you. And also with you.

Though I am not at all, in any way, religious, I am comfortable admitting that I absolutely love Jesus. You might even say I’m a bit of a Jesus freak. He had some really innovative ideas, and he was not afraid to voice them. Maybe a little pushy. But I admire assertiveness. He definitely practiced what he preached. I mean, from what we’ve heard. And he was super confident! Walking around proclaiming to be the Messiah?

That’s chutzpah!

I was raised Catholic, and I went through all the initiations. I attended church with my father every Sunday. It was really just an easy way to get his approval. Sure, he made it seem like church was optional, which it sort of was, but not going lowered you in his estimation. I was the only one of the four kids in my family who joined him in this ritual. My mother wouldn’t go—couldn’t go—because she’s a Methodist, which is weird for an Italian. But the story goes that her father, who emigrated from Italy, came ashore and immediately renounced his Catholicism. Maybe Methodism provided access to a different or even (in his eyes) a better class of people. I suppose he wanted to fully assimilate, not content to remain just one more heavily-accented, superstitious, death-obsessed Italian immigrant. He died three months before I was born, so I didn’t know him. But I can see in photos that he was American. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a gingham short-sleeved cotton oxford shirt. He’s clean-cut and proud. He arrived in the States at the age of 11, all alone, with no money. He became a successful cabinetmaker with a thriving business.

Speaking of Jesus. Isn’t it interesting that you’re Jewish if your mother’s Jewish, but you’re a Catholic if your father’s Catholic? As Archie Bunker said, Jesus was a Jew, but only on his mother’s side!

There was no option of our being raised Methodist.

“Methodist? So new-fangled and radical! You might as well be a pagan for Christ’s sake.”

So, OK, Jesus was a Jew who proclaimed to be the Messiah. And we all know the end to that story. His fellow Jews were not convinced that he was the Messiah. They were like,

“Hang on…just hang on a second. The Messiah has to…um…fulfill the messianic prophecies. Remember those? You don’t just stroll in and say, ‘I’m the Messiah!’”

There were, I think, four bullet points to this particular prophecy, along the lines of: the Messiah has to build the third temple; he has to gather all the Jews and bring them back to Israel; he’s got to usher in a time of peace, ending all hatred, oppression, disease, suffering, etc.; and he’s got to spread the universal knowledge of the God of Israel. Voila!

So, the story goes that Jesus came up short on fulfilling the prophecies. The Christians, now essentially the Catholics, who were obsessed with this guy, were like,

“Oh, he will definitely fulfill the prophecies…eventually. Give the guy a chance, let’s manage these expectations, ok?...Are you for real? You have to have all this right now? It’s gonna be tough. However…if you’re willing to wait…a little longer?...maybe for the second coming?...then no sweat, Jesus will bring it!

And the Jews came back with,

“Yah…No. You wanna be the Messiah, you get it done. Dress up a broom and it’ll look nice, too! Uh-uh, we don’t buy it.”

And the Catholics were incredulous. What’s the rush, they must’ve wondered. Cause Catholics thrive on procrastination. They live on next time. Later. After….life…we promise. We swear to God. Let’s just…have…one more drink. And the Jews wouldn’t budge.

So now when you hear, Jesus was a Jew, you’ll have the full picture. Jesus was more of a mañana Messiah. A Jew with Catholic affectations.

I’m a Catholic with Jewish affectations. Like most of you here tonight.

I can trace it all back to the first second I met the Kleins, I wanted to be Jewish.

It’s the 80s.

I’d recently escaped the Catholic college my father coerced me into attending, and I had matriculated at Boston University for my sophomore year. And though I had successfully counter-coerced my father into letting me transfer to BU, the truth was he couldn’t really afford the higher tuition, so my room and board had to be self-funded. Which led me to the au pair service, and my eventual placement with The Kleins of Brookline Village.

Joan Klein, née Silverman, native New Yorker, summa cum laude Cornell, child psychologist, age 39. Plain face, boyish figure, out-turned walk in Joan + David shoes, heather-beige skirt suits and the occasional throwback Indian gauze dress, hands-off with her two little girls, for whom I am now responsible, and only slightly more hands-on with her husband.

Rob Klein, Boston born and bred, Harvard architectural school grad, now in private practice, cycles to work wearing a helmet, salt and peppered full head of hair, handsome, affectionate with his daughters, in love with this house which he has diligently designed and decorated, in an ongoing conversation with his wife about opera, the ballet and Bette Midler. Age 37.

I was 18 when I moved into the Klein’s artfully restored Queen Anne style house. For the first time in my life, I have my own room and bathroom. The washer and dryer, both of which work, are upstairs, tucked away in a custom-made closet. Their all-white kitchen has plentiful counter space. Rob and Joan chop vegetables together, sip half glasses of wine before dinner, prepare fish with confidence, and make plans…in advance…for the weekends. We eat bagels on Sunday mornings. With salmon scrambled eggs and strong coffee from freshly ground beans. We read the New York Times and the New Yorker. Never, ever the Boston Globe.

They treat me like one of the family. Which is to say, rather detachedly but with great expectations. Am I putting enough time into my schoolwork? Had I phoned my parents this week? What’s the plan for next year? And the year after? Would I mind babysitting on Friday, “we’re going to a Bette Midler concert, with friends.”

Rob spends that week leading up to the show playing Bette records and singing along. Joan is tone deaf, so she snaps and sways along, arhythmically. I may’ve grown up in a pathologically ordinary, middle class world, and spent the previous year in a segregated Catholic Benedictine liberal arts college, but I am quickly catching on. After a mere few months of living with the Kleins, I am fully assimilated. Now I know: a man who coddles his kids, cycles instead of drives, decorates, cooks, reads, and reveres Bette Midler isn’t necessarily a closeted homosexual. He might just be Jewish.

My sister married a Jewish guy. From Brooklyn. Whose relatives left Holland to escape the Nazis. My brother-in-law refers to himself as an Auschwitz Jew. Sort of a never-forget, remember the alamo, Boston Strong brand of Jewishness. He lets me pretend I’m Jewish. It’s fun.

I’m sure my sister has never seen the inside of a Catholic church. She’s the youngest and somehow she escaped the initiations, the first holy communion, the confession, all of it. Which I suppose means she’s not officially a Catholic. But she loves Christmas. And of course, they celebrate Hanukah, too. Some years, Hanukah and Christmas just about overlap. I love that. I love the seamlessness of it. And I love the Hanukah leftovers on Christmas eve, the kugel and pretzels, the brisket and especially the latkes. I think latkes should go mainstream, everyone should enjoy them, especially around the holidays. My brainstorm is a brand of frozen latkes, ready-made for Whole Foods, organic and gluten-free, in a variety of seasonings, maybe even a sweet option in addition to the savories.

I’ve got the marketing all worked out.

Shiksa’s Christmas Latkes!

For the Jew in You!