Sauerkraut Latkes

March. The third anniversary of Marvin's move to Cedarhurst. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days (approximately). Over a thousand visits. Over a thousand containers of food. Over a thousand hours of sitting beside him, holding his hand, reading to him, feeding him, loving him in the specific, daily, physical way that is the marriage now — not the marriage of conversation and shared evenings and debated kugel recipes, but the marriage of presence, of the hand on the hand, of the food on the tongue, of the voice in the room.

Marvin is quieter than ever. He speaks rarely — a word here, a word there, a "good" or a "thank you" or, rarely, a name. My name has not appeared in months. The windows are closing. The windows are getting smaller and fewer and further apart, and the spaces between them are getting larger, and the larger spaces are the disease, and the disease is winning the war of Marvin's interior, and I am losing the war, and the losing is the loving, because the loving continues even when the losing is complete, and the losing is never complete, because the body is here, and the body eats, and the eating is the bridge, and the bridge holds.

I made matzo ball soup — the Sylvia version, the three-hour version, the version that is the cure for everything except the thing that needs curing. The soup was for Marvin. The soup is always for Marvin. The soup goes to Cedarhurst at two o'clock, in a thermos, still hot, the matzo balls fluffy, always fluffy, because some things are non-negotiable, and matzo ball texture is the last non-negotiable thing in a life where everything else has been negotiated into submission.

The soup went to Cedarhurst, as it always does. What stayed home — what I made for myself, because I am still here and I still need to eat — were these sauerkraut latkes, my grandmother Sylvia’s other recipe, the one she made on the nights when the kitchen needed to smell like something alive and sharp and real. They are not the cure for anything either, but they are crispy at the edges and tangy at the center, and frying them fills the apartment with a smell that belongs to a very long line of women who cooked through things that couldn’t be cooked away, and that is enough. That is, tonight, enough.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 40 min | Servings: 4 (about 12 latkes)

Ingredients

2 cups sauerkraut, drained and squeezed very dry
2 cups russet potatoes, peeled and grated (about 2 medium)
1 small yellow onion, grated
2 large eggs, beaten
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon caraway seeds (optional)
Vegetable oil, for frying (about 1/3 cup)
Sour cream or applesauce, for serving

Instructions

Drain the sauerkraut. Place the sauerkraut in a clean kitchen towel and wring out as much liquid as possible. This step is essential — excess moisture will prevent the latkes from crisping.
Prepare the potatoes. Grate the potatoes and onion on the large holes of a box grater. Transfer to a clean towel and squeeze firmly to remove as much liquid as you can.
Mix the batter. In a large bowl, combine the drained sauerkraut, grated potato and onion, beaten eggs, flour, salt, pepper, and caraway seeds if using. Stir until evenly combined.
Heat the oil. Pour vegetable oil into a large heavy skillet (cast iron works best) to a depth of about 1/4 inch. Heat over medium-high until shimmering but not smoking — a drop of batter should sizzle immediately on contact.
Form and fry the latkes. Working in batches, drop heaping tablespoons of batter into the hot oil and press gently with a spatula to flatten to about 1/3-inch thickness. Fry 3–4 minutes per side until deep golden brown and crispy at the edges. Do not crowd the pan.
Drain and season. Transfer finished latkes to a paper towel-lined plate. Sprinkle lightly with salt while still hot.
Serve. Arrange on a platter and serve immediately with sour cream or applesauce alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Sauerkraut Latkes — The Recipes That Outlast Everything