A Rite of Passage

my father’s mother barely five feet tall and shorter when age took some inches wore her hair in a twist  with some red strands still showing when age rinsed the color out  but age never wiped away recipes learned from her mother in the russian village she left when barely sixteen to travel here and pass through ellis island before starting life in the lower east side of manhattan 

she carried the recipe for latkes within and measured ingredients in egg shells or the palm of her hand while i stood with my cousins waiting for the thin potato pancakes to sizzle in hot oil, crisp and then be placed on brown paper to drain the grease which spread in a circle around each round latke

we spooned applesauce on to a plate and lined up to receive our latkes which we picked up, dipped and ate