Start With Light
Hanukkah meaning, for me, began as a small glow in a dark season — a quiet kind of light that did not ask for attention but changed the room anyway.
I did not grow up Jewish. I first learned about Hanukkah in college, mostly through history classes and the story of the Maccabees. I knew the outlines. I could repeat the basics of what happened and why the holiday existed. But it felt like something happening just outside the window of my life.
What drew me in was the table.
I have always had Jewish friends. As a chef, I was fascinated by the food that appeared around this time of year. Latkes with sour cream and applesauce. Kugel. Brisket. Jelly doughnuts dusted with sugar. Plates of fried things that somehow tasted like comfort and celebration at the same time.
One year, a cherished Jewish friend invited me to her home for a Hanukkah lunch. The house felt calm. The pace was slow. Nothing about it was rushed or performative — it was a simple meal, but deeply intentional. They were remembering something special — a miracle, light in the darkness. That feeling stayed with me long after the dishes were cleared.
Years later, I found myself wanting to honor what I had experienced in her home. I started small. No menorah. Just a few candles lined up while I cooked dinner — a quiet gesture toward a story that was not mine, but that had made room for me at the table.
Eventually, I called my friend and asked the question that had been sitting in my chest.
“Is it okay if I light a menorah for Hanukkah, even though I am not Jewish.”
She did not hesitate.
“That is beautiful,” she said.
So I learned. I learned how to place the candles. I learned the order. I learned the prayers in English and in Hebrew. And somewhere in that practice, Hanukkah meaning moved from history to something that lived inside my own kitchen.
How I Practice Imperfectly
do not make latkes every night. I do not have a menorah passed down through generations.
Sometimes I still just line up a few tea lights while I cook dinner. Recently I bought a simple modern metal menorah. That same friend stood beside me and showed me how to light it properly — step by step. That small act of remembrance felt deeply grounding, almost like being welcomed back into a room I had only peeked into before.
If you are curious about the traditions themselves and want a fuller picture of Hanukkah meaning, Town & Country has a beautiful overview of how it began, its rituals, and its symbols.
My practice is not perfect. It is not traditional in every way. But it is sincere. It is deliberate. It is my way of saying, I see the light you have guarded for generations. I am grateful for it.
What Hanukkah Means To Me
Life moves at a relentless pace. Most days rush past in a blur of notifications, lists, and what needs to be done next.
Hanukkah pulls me in the opposite direction — back toward stillness, memory, flame.
It asks me to slow down. To strike one match on purpose. To light one candle, then another, and remember that there was once oil that should not have lasted and somehow did.
What I have learned, standing over those small flames, is this — darkness is not stronger than light. Darkness is only the absence of it. Darkness shows up when light is dimmed, diminished, or simply not there. Even a single candle pushes it back. One tiny flame and the room is not the same anymore.
To me, Hanukkah is about light in the face of overwhelming odds. It is defiance in its quietest form — continuing on, nourishing each other, keeping memory and ritual alive when the world says it is easier not to bother.
The stories are old and layered. Survival. Spirit. Reclaiming what was lost. But the heart of it feels timeless. Gather your people. Light a flame. Pass the plate. Remember.
A Smaller Kind of Celebration
In a season obsessed with spectacle — big trees, big boxes, big everything — Hanukkah meaning shows up for me as an invitation to sit closer.
To be simpler. To mark time with gratitude rather than gifts.
Sometimes there are latkes. Sometimes there is just soup and bread — and the warmth of people I love around the table. Sometimes it is a quick meal after a long day, with candles flickering on the counter while something fries in the pan.
What matters is the light. The table. The people who are close enough to reach for the same platter and pass it on.
If you love quieter rituals around the holidays, you might also enjoy this companion piece, When Leftovers Become the Lesson, where I write about how the day after the feast often teaches me more than the feast itself.
Keep A Little Light
No, I did not grow up celebrating Hanukkah.
But now that I do, imperfectly and in my own way, I see the gift it carries — again and again.
To remember.
To cook.
To be surrounded by good food and the people you love.
To slow down long enough to notice that the small flame is still burning.
Hanukkah meaning is not a rule for me — it is a reminder.
Keep a little light.
Share a warm plate.
Let the small flame be enough.
To all my Jewish friends who have invited me into your homes, your stories, and your tables: I am grateful for you. I love you.
Happy Hanukkah.
