Diana and Asa’s First Hanukkah Together

“I want to light it. I think I should get a turn.” Diana is still a bit irritated that she didn’t get to stomp on a glass at our wedding. I constantly have to remind her that we eloped, which was entirely her idea. But ever since she saw my sister and her husband stomp a glass at their wedding, she’s been reading up on Jewish traditions.

            Her father made us a menorah--he’s taken up welding to let out his spare energy while he waits for his grandchildren to be born. “Diana, I’m going to let you light it. I promise. I’m just showing you how to do it.” I don’t bother to remind her we get eight chances. That we get to snuggle up by candlelight for eight days, eating fried foods until we burst.

            She harumphs and sits back in the chair, letting me demonstrate. “Ok. So, this candle here that sticks up higher than the others? It’s called the shamash. The helper candle.”

            “I wondered why there were nine,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought maybe my dad just counted wrong or something.”

            I shake my head. “Nope. There’s nine candles on the menorah—the helper candle brings light to all the others. My rabbi used to say we should all be like the shamash, and bring light to others in their darkness.”

            Her face lights up and I pause to kiss her, because I can. “I like that,” she says. “That’s nice.”

            “It’s a nice holiday! So we will add another candle each night, and we light the newest one first while we sing the prayers. Did you practice the prayer?”

            I had printed out the words for her, because she didn’t want to mess up. It doesn’t matter that we don’t have anyone over, that nobody is watching. She had said, “I want it to be right for you, Asa. It’s important.”

            Diana pulls out the wrinkled paper from her back pocket and I watch as she smooths it out on the table. I clear my throat and pull on the gift Diana’s mother had sent—a kippah branded with the Oak Creek College logo. I nestle it onto my hair and Diana giggles. “Can I send her a picture?”

            “Maybe after the candles are lit,” I tell her. I remind Diana that we sing a third verse just tonight, and together we bobble through the blessings. It doesn’t take long. Afterward, we sit together at the table in our dining room, arms tangled around each other, just gazing quietly into the light.

            “You are my greatest blessing,” I tell her, kissing her again. I like when she snuggles back into me, smelling as always of earth and sunshine and herbs. I wasn’t expecting anything about this life we’ve made together, running a business in a small town surrounded by her outlandish family. I never imagined getting pulled into shenanigans with livestock and circus classes and babies.

            But here we are.

            I extract one arm from around Diana’s shoulders to grab the plate of latkes my mother sent. My mother doesn’t do a whole lot for herself in the kitchen, but she does make killer latkes every year. She sent over a whole tray, and I told Diana to count our blessings because we don’t have to fill the house with the smell of spattered oil. We just heated these guys up under the broiler.

            “Here,” I say, offering a crispy disk to my wife. “Taste.”

            She bites, and her face melts into pleasure. “Oh my god. Asa, what in the hell is in these? This is amazing.”

            “It’s oil, babe. Lots of fat and oil.” I dunk mine in the dish of sour cream and I can’t talk for a bit while I recover from the amazing flavor combination washing through my body.

            “Just wait,” I tell her, chewing. “Tomorrow we’re doing brisket.”

            Diana grabs another latke and groans as she eats it. “Your holidays are so much better than mine,” she says.

            “Well, they’re our holidays now,” I tell her. “Together.”

            As the candles burn, we finish the latkes and I take off the garish yarmulke before Diana snaps a picture. I distract her by pulling out the final piece of the evening’s festivities. “Ok, my witchy wife,” I say, dropping chocolate-covered coins on the table. “Are you ready to lose at dreidel?”

            She raises an eyebrow at me and climbs off my lap to sit across the table in her own chair. “Asa Wexler,” she says, eyes dancing in the glow. “I do not lose. Ever.”

            I grin and rub my hands together. “Should we play for the gelt,” I gesture at the chocolate. “Or something more…interesting?”

            “Strip dreidel,” she says, without hesitating. She rips the foil wrapper off a piece of chocolate and eats it. “Now tell me the rules so I can kick your ass.”

Continue the series with Archer and Opal in The Midwife and the Money.