This year for Hanukkah, I’m going back to my culinary roots. Hanukkah, the Jewish festival of lights, commemorates the victory by a small band of Jews against the religious oppression of the powerful Seleucid Greek Empire in the second century BCE. The legend at the heart of the holiday is that when the Jews were at last able to return to their desecrated temple and resume their religious practices, they attempted to light their sacred menorah (candelabra) but found barely enough oil to burn for a night. Miraculously, the oil burned for eight nights, long enough for more oil to be found. Today Jews celebrate Hanukkah for eight nights, lighting another candle each night — an apt ritual for a holiday at the darkest time of the year. Celebrants eat foods fried in oil, making tasty use of the ingredient at the crux of the holiday. Here in the United States, that food is usually latkes — fried potato pancakes sprinkled with salt and topped with applesauce or sour cream. What’s not to love? This food was brought here by the Ashkenazi Jews of Eastern Europe, where the potato is king. We’ve gladly embraced this food in our interfaith household, although I am not Ashkenazi and my husband is not Jewish. In Israel, a common Hanukkah food is sufganiyot: pillowy, deep-fried donuts filled with jelly and dusted with powdered sugar. We tried making these one year when our son was little. They were tasty, but the kitchen ended up looking like someone had detonated a flour bomb. In my family’s Syrian and Egyptian Jewish heritage, we eat zalabia: little fried balls of dough, dipped in a glaze of orange blossom water. Mom never made these, but I got a recipe from Aunt Vivian, who has memories of eating them as a young girl on family trips to the beach outside Cairo, where vendors would hawk “Zalabia! Lukumades! Zalabia! Lukumades!” — as they are called in Arabic and Greek. Hanukkah begins this year at sundown on Nov. 28. As I’m writing, that’s still a few weeks away, but my son and his girlfriend — as committed to research-based journalism as I am — graciously agreed to taste-test Aunt Vivian’s recipe with me. Zalabia are quicker to make than sufganiyot, and a lot less messy. They’re also small, meaning you can eat a little or a lot. After a little trial and error, we got yummy results. Bear in mind that in the Middle East, eating sweet foods is believed to ward off the evil eye.

How to make zalabia

First make the dough. Stir 1 teaspoon dry yeast into a half-cup warm water and let it stand for 10 to 15 minutes, until bubbles start to form. Put 2 cups flour and a half-teaspoon salt in a large bowl and add the yeast mixture. Slowly pour in 1-1/2 cups water and stir vigorously until smooth. Cover the bowl with wax paper or a damp towel. Let dough rise for at least an hour, until it has about doubled in size. Expect it to be wetter than bread dough, more like pancake batter. Next make the glaze. Combine 2 cups sugar, 1 cup water and the juice of half a lemon in a saucepan. Simmer at low heat for about 15 minutes, until mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Toward the end of the simmering, after the sugar has thoroughly dissolved, add 1/2 to 1 teaspoon orange blossom water (to taste). Take mixture off the stove and let cool. Heat cooking oil, about 2 inches deep, in a deep fryer or a small saucepan over medium heat. Drop batter into the oil by the teaspoon or more. (Dipping your spoon in oil first will help the batter slide off easily.) The dough will puff up when it hits the hot oil. Turn the fritters as they cook to brown them evenly. This where the trial and error came in for us. Our first batch had a nice golden hue but was doughy inside. When we cooked the fritters a little longer, they became too dense, too cakey. The Goldilocks “just right” batch came from lowering the temperature of the oil a bit, yielding fritters that were crisp and golden brown outside, with a light, airy texture inside. Scoop them out with a slotted spoon, drain on paper towels, dip in the orange blossom glaze and cool slightly before eating. We also played with the amount of orange blossom water in the glaze. This is another Goldilocks process. Too little won’t reveal the water’s delicately sweet, floral flavor. Too much will evoke the taste of a not so palatable bar of soap. We found a sweet spot at about a half-tablespoon. Orange blossom water, available online or in higher-end grocery stores, is a worthy addition to any international pantry. Just a few drops will add a subtle sense of intrigue to desserts, fruit salads, green salads and meat dishes, and even bathwater or a facial spritz. Just keep in mind that it is made from orange blossoms, not fruit or skin; orange extract or zest has a very different flavor profile. Variations of zalabia can be found throughout the world, in the form of fritters, pancakes and funnel cakes. Throughout the Americas you’ll find buñuelos, brought by Jewish exiles of the Spanish Inquisition. In India, Iran and Iraq, the treats are called zengoula or jalabi. New Mexico’s beloved sopapillas may share their pedigree with sufganiyot, with common origins in pre-Inquisition Spain. It all goes to show how foods converge and change along routes of trade and migration. Or how many people just want to ward off the evil eye with sweet treats.

Claudette Sutton is the founder and editor of “Tumbleweeds,” Santa Fe's parenting magazine, which she sold to new owners in June. She enjoys living, writing, cooking and eating here in Santa Fe with her husband, Charles Brunn.