The lyrics of Debbie Friedman’s “The Latke Song” deserve a second look from a disciple of music theatre, sociology, Jewish education, groupthink, and epistemology. Because, as a freelancer with the chaotic résumé of several dilettantes, I’ve been recently (literally right now) self-appointed inter-disciplinary scholar of all the above: I’ll go first.
The song (lyrics below) begins with expressions of self doubt and existential tumult. A nagging sense of purpose unmet and the all-too-relatable feeling that you have to be attractive to change the world.
Then, at the end, in a turn that seems entirely a non-sequitur, unless you’re a child of the 90s, the latke turns herself from looking inward to looking at the world as a whole. I suppose the latke has much time on her hands, waiting for the home cook to return, and it’s natural then that her thoughts would spin out toward a brief sermon on homelessness and the credo of Reform Judaism — that nothing can be truly fun and silly without at least a nod toward ending the suffering of others.
I hadn’t actually remembered this final verse until, this year, in anticipation of “Hanukkah Choraling*” at the Temple where I work, I revisited this archival footage of Debbie and a throng of vintage** kids singing, hands aloft, the delightful rhythms of The Latke Song at what looks to be an evangelical-sized, jumbotron-style Jewish event of the sort that one typically associates with the Bible Belt or, this one time, terrifyingly, on Birthright when I was in Israel with an arena-full of international Jews in their 20s.
I am typically VERY WARY of any group of people, even my very own people, gathered together in an excessively large group to profess ONE BELIEF.
This fear actually comes from watching documentary footage of Hitler (and his hypnotized fan club) in Hebrew school and was stoked again several years ago when I attended a self-publishing conference run by a slick businessman whom I quickly diagnosed as an extreme narcissist. (I was there on behalf of a social media client and trying, at first, to keep an open mind.) I exited the midtown Manhattan conference hall in a panic to call my mother and tell her that it was excruciating to watch this man in his fitted suit tell a room full of elderly/unstable/generally-delusional people that they could all successfully publish their books under the watch of his plainly opportunistic and predatory organization.
…An empath, in a banquet hall full of dreams that hang like smog with crazy people inhaling the pollution, will struggle to breathe and need to call home. Incidentally, this is also why I don’t like Los Angeles.
It is my conviction that any person, left alone in silent meditation, no matter how basic, lame, unimaginative or not interesting the person is, will still eventually manage to have a divergence of opinions from other humans, and I think that’s terrific and ought to be encouraged.
The last verse of Debbie’s song references the manifesto of the latke, which she (I’m just assigning this latke the gender of “she” because it seems to me that the latke is riddled with doubts about her appearance and is strung out about needing to feed the world, which feels like a “she” latke to me, for sure) discovers, while sitting expectantly, in her blender.
If you’re a 90s kid, these lyrics, when you learned them, felt logical because you were going about the business of your life while also wearing a “Save the Whales” T-shirt (made from entirely unsustainable fabrics farmed in some totally exploitative way by children your age and just like you, except that they were born in some godforsaken country pillaged for its crops, fabrics, and human souls).
I find the latke all the more relatable now, as a grownup.
I (the lady latke) am waiting for the unseen, all-knowing cook to come home and anoint me with the oil that will finish me and, in my completeness, I shall know precisely what I’m supposed to do with my life, which may or may not involve feeding homeless people and solving inequity in my lifetime — all before I become fully oxidized and slimy, reclaimed by the humbling truth that I AM… a starchy vegetable who came from, and all too quickly returns to, the dirt.
See for yourself:
Lyrics:
CHORUS:
I am a latke, I’m a latke
& I am waiting for Chanukah to come
I am a latke, I’m a latke
& I am waiting for Chanukah to come
Verse 1:
I am so mixed up that I cannot tell you,
I'm sitting in this blender turning brown.
I've made friends with the onions & the flour,
& the cook is scouting oil in town.
I sit here wondering what will come of me,
I can't be eaten looking as I do.
I need someone to take me out & cook me,
Or I'll really end up in a royal stew.
CHORUS:
I am a latke, I’m a latke
& I am waiting for Chanukah to come
I am a latke, I’m a latke
& I am waiting for Chanukah to come
Verse 2:
Every holiday has foods so special,
I'd like to have that same attention too,
I do not want to spend life in this blender,
Wondering what it is that I'm supposed to do.
Matza & choroset are for Pesach,
Chopped liver & challah for Shabbat
Blintzes on Shavuot are delicious,
& gefilte fish no holiday's without.
CHORUS
Verse 3:
It's important that I have an understanding
Of what it is that I'm supposed to do,
You see, there are so many who are homeless,
With no jobs, no clothes & very little food.
It's so important that we all remember,
That while we have most of the things we need,
We must remember those who have so little,
We must help them, we must be the ones to feed…
CHORUS
*Caroling, but instead, with Hanukkah music
**I THOUGHT they were “vintage,” until I looked at the date and realized that most of the kids in this video are now solidly 6 or 7 years younger than I am today. So, yes, they are vintage, but … also… they are younger than me.
I love your thinking and your passionate expression Little Brown Latke! I would love to excerpt the paragraph about people meditating for a query at Quaker meeting!