I’ve two poems in the current issue of Misfit Magazine. Here is the first and a link to the issue.

Latkes

I hand grate
the potatoes and onions
though my friends
have switched to food processors.
My grandma always said
that without a bit of blood
the latkes hadn’t much taste.

Aside for a special dish or two,
grandma was no cook—
having more interest in professional
wrestling and divining the daily numbers.
Given a deck of cards, she could separate
you from your money faster
than you could say matzoh meal.

Latkes are best when piping hot.
My grandmother an impresario—
playing the sizzle-snap of the pan.
We would gather round the stove
like wolves that had found a rabbit,
and scarf the latkes down—
burnt fingers be damned.

Hunger pangs gone,
we retired to the dinner table.
A mound of latkes, sour cream,
and apple sauce
shared the spotlight
with grandma’s other masterpiece—
brisket, queen of comfort food.

http://misfitmagazine.net/archive/No-40/index.html