In my family, all of us will file into the kitchen for one night and fry up more latkes than a small army could physically eat. And I mean we're using like forty pounds of pounds of potatoes, here. My mom and grandmother are the only ones who know the recipe, and if the rest of us want to learn, we have to memorize it while doing it.
So I'm just imagining the Batfamily's version of Latke night. And then I got carried away.
When Bruce was young, he didn't make latkes with his family. The Waynes weren't exactly the type of people to spend hours in the kitchen, although Bruce would sometimes sneak in to "help" Alfred. But what they did do was eat them together; In the dining room, the table piled high with crispy golden goodness, applesauce and sour cream. It was one of the few times they could get Alfred to dine with them; Martha would tease him for eating his latkes with only the slightest dab of homemade applesauce, Thomas laughing all the while. Bruce loved those nights; more than the sounds of his parents voices singing the prayers, more than he loved the games of dreidel or the presents wrapped in silver and blue, he loved that one night of Hanukkah.
But then Bruce's parents died. Murdered, struck down, buried in the very clothes they died in. And when Hanukkah came again, the dining room seemed unbearably empty. There was no Martha to foist sour cream onto Alfred's plate or Thomas to 'accidentally' bite too hard into a jelly doughnut and leave Bruce giggling when the filling smeared on his face. There was no gentle alto or deep baritone to sing alongside the childish tenor, no one to pass the shamash fire to. The very glint of gelt sent Bruce into a panic attack, too close to a different shine in a dark alley, and Alfred hurriedly locked it away in the deepest parts of the pantry.
Alfred stood there, in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Bruce sat silently at the table, eyes locked unseeing on the wood. He hadn't taken a meal in the dining room since that horrid night, and Alfred hadn't made him. They ate in the kitchen now, in the breakfast nook, Bruce sitting there with Alfred by his side, gently coaxing him to take just one more bite, Master Bruce. Just one.
This was worse, somehow. Because this was Hanukkah, and there should be light and joy and laughter. Instead there was silence.
Alfred was not Jewish. He grew up with the simple trappings of a passingly Christian family, church on holidays and the occasional Grace said at meals. His experiences with Judaism were superficial, introduced during his time with the Waynes. He did not know the prayers, wouldn't feel right saying them even if he did; he wouldn't feel confident lighting the large oil menorah in the front window, nor the small personal ones in the family sitting room.
But Alfred did know how to cook. More importantly, he knew how to cook latkes. It was just like any other recipe he had learned to cater to the tastes of his charges, although the ingredients and preparation of these were, perhaps, more carefully handled than most other recipes. The ingredients were tucked away in the pantry behind him, delivered on the first night of Hanukkah. He didn't know if it would cheer or depress the young master, but he couldn't bring himself to throw them out.
But Alfred remembered a young boy who so desperately wanted to help, who slipped into the kitchen with light in his eyes and giggled when Alfred let him steal some of the crunchy bits that had fallen off the edges. Alfred relied on that memory as he prodded Bruce from his chair, to the kitchen island, into one of the stools there. He placed a bowl of matzo on the counter before him, and told him to start crushing it (Alfred had always done this the traditional way, and he could not pass much on, but this. This was something he could).
They spend the evening making latkes. Piles upon piles, just for the two of them. Bruce was just as bad at it as he was with stars in his eyes, and he was not talking by the end of it, but he was smiling, and the sight could bring Alfred to tears.
It became their new tradition. Year after year, no matter how far Bruce pushed him away or how far Alfred let him, they stood in the kitchen with oil frying in the pan, and made latkes. And then Bruce grew, grew tall and strong and into a man with an unspeakably stupid crusade (may their memory be a blessing, he remembered hearing at the funeral, and he suspected Master Bruce forgot that it was blessing, not curse. He doesn't think Bruce will ever be ready to hear the difference). And one day, there was another little boy haunting the hallways of the manor, grieving for parents he should have outlived.
This one was not Jewish. He remembered Christmas spent with the circus, how the big top looked strung up with lights, the taste of gingerbread and cranberries. But when winter crept in and the city of Gotham lit up with red and green and sparkling tinsel, Dick got quiet. He did not want to celebrate Christmas, that year.
But Bruce remembered a day in the kitchen, his heart bleeding out over the wood of the table, remembered Alfred standing in the corner. He remembered the crackling of oil and the smell that lingered for days. Remembered a bowl of potatoes, of apples, of onions, a cup of salt, pepper and baking soda. A carton of eggs. He remembered a bowl of matzo; he remembered not feeling alone.
Bruce was just as useless in the kitchen as ever, but Alfred was not, and the three of them crowded around the island together, oil heavy in the air. Dick was not terribly better in the kitchen than Bruce, and they listened to Alfred's directions very carefully. He was talking, by the end of it, babbling a mile a minute, and Bruce could have cried.
Years later, when Dick was off in Blüdhaven, grown and angry and hurt, there came another young boy. This one was not fresh off of some tragedy (he had lost early and often), but he was fresh off the streets. Scared and too-skinny, he had only just begun to trust them, so many months into his stay. He wasn't Jewish, either. Wasn't really anything; Jason Todd, growing up, had never had the time or the money to be worrying about things like holidays or prayers.
But, he took to latke night like a duck to water; Alfred even trusted him to fry a few—under close supervision and with a splatter guard, but it was more than anyone else had managed. Bruce, standing with his apple corer and bowl of sliced potatoes, just shook his head and laughed. Even after all these years, he never managed to get near the oil without burning himself.
Dick showed up, that year. Late, but he showed. He flicked matzo mush at Jason, and then they were chasing each other around the kitchen, laughing and breathless and making a mess of things, crumbs and sodden bread spilling across the floor, the counters, some of the walls. It was the one year they use flour, instead.
But then Jason died (buried in a shiny new suit, because Jason Todd-Wayne couldn’t be buried in Robin's uniform. Bruce was unsure if he would even want to. He kept the uniform safe, anyway, and did not touch the blood). Jason died, and then there was a third young boy in the manor. This one was not mourning. This one had never had enough to mourn. He was well taken care of, never wanted for food or clothes or shelter, for the very best that money could buy; and if money could not buy it, it was nowhere to be found.
Tim Drake was Jewish, but only in the same way he was a Drake—in name and vague, flickering memories of warmth and fire and songs that had faded with memory and never renewed, until he forgot he was never supposed to be cold. He haunted the manor; not like Dick so many years before him, not like Bruce, like the ghosts of Martha and Thomas and Jason. Tim slipped down hallways like he expected no one to see him, for touch to slip through him like vapor. Tim walked like he forgot the manor wasn't empty.
Tim Drake was lonely. Tim Drake was alone. And Alfred remembered a lonely young boy haunting an empty manor; Bruce remembered a young acrobat wilting at the sight of christmas lights; Dick remembered a little brother at the stove with his tongue sticking out, matzo and onion on his cheek.
Bruce had to herd Tim into the kitchen. When he saw what it was, when he saw Dick and Alfred waiting with bowls of potatoes, apples and onions covering the island, salt and pepper and eggs and baking soda—he stiffened. It was a family tradition, and he did not think he was family. He did not want to intrude. Alfred sat him down at the counter with a bowl full of matzo, and told him to start crushing.
Tim had never made latkes before, and after the third time he almost crushed his own hand, they decided he would never be allowed to make them unsupervised. Dick chased him across the kitchen, matzo crumbs in his hair and a fistfull of potatoes in one hand. Tim laughs by the end of it, and the three of them blink away tears.
When the latkes were eaten, the kitchen clean, and Dick in a potato and oil induced food coma, Bruce took Tim to the family sitting room. On the table sat two menorahs—one, Tim was already familiar with. It was one of the three that sat on the mantle throughout the year, just above the fireplace. The second one was new, bright silver instead of shiny gold, and Bruce guided him to it with a warm hand on his shoulder. He handed Tim the candles, helped him melt the bottoms so they would stay in place. When the prayers rose through the room, it was a slow, dark baritone that sung them, an adolescent tenor following close behind.
Steph invited herself to latke night, the first year they knew her, and they sent her home with more food than she could reasonably eat in a year. Cassandra showed up shortly after, and spent her first latke night stealing the crunchy edges off the closest platter, instructions lost to the language barrier. Not that anyone minded, really—It was nice to have more mouths to feed, and they were family, even if one wasn't official.
And then there was a day, an old flame, a league of assassins, and a child who looked so much like Bruce it hurt. There was a child, ten years old and terrified, arrogant, desperate. Bruce didn't remember another boy like that (Alfred did).
They clashed, immediately; Damian had been fed stories and expectations of his father since he was old enough to hear it, and Bruce never, ever wanted to live up to them. They snarled and misunderstood each other, over and over and over again.
Damian al Ghul was not Jewish, barely knew what the word meant. He had grown up knowing very little actually information about his father, and the menorah on the mantle was as unfamiliar to him as the man himself.
But Bruce remembered a young man, angry and surly and traveling across the world in search of something. Bruce remembered a complex of shadows. Remembered losing himself. Remembered coming back
Bruce dragged a surly Damian into the kitchen, placed him in front of a bowl of fresh matzo, and told him to start crushing. By the end of it, there were only three minor stab wounds, and Damian had stopped frowning. Bruce could have cried in relief.
Later, there came Duke, grief ridden for parents that still lived, who went willingly to the kitchen and mixed ingredients with steady determination. He smiled by the end of it, and the rest of the family could have ridden that high for the rest of time.
Eventually, there came Barbara and Jim (who's shield of plausible deniability had worn thin), and then Jason, again, and the kitchen was a mess of bodies and laughter and spilled ingredients. Alfred and Jason were still the only ones trusted to fry, although Dick could manage a batch or two before surrendering, unwilling to tempt fate.
Someone still managed to burn themselves. Every Goddamn. Year.
