I glanced out the window at the falling snow. The temperature had dropped considerably throughout the day. By nightfall there might easily be a foot or more of snow outdoors.

As is a common occurrence in such weather, I received an early morning phone call that school had been canceled. Normally I would have been grateful for such a call. I would much rather have the children stay home than have to carpool under such hazardous driving conditions. However, that particular day was another story.

Weeks in advance, I had offered the use of my home for the Kislev sisterhood meeting. Little did I know then that school was going to be canceled on precisely that day.

I silently prayed that the women would decide to reschedule the meeting, that they would prefer to stay home on such a snowy night. As it turned out, however, most of them were anxious to get out of the house after spending an entire day at home with their children. Besides, they were eagerly looking forward to the potato latkes I had offered to serve. What could be better than some delicious piping hot latkes and applesauce on such a cold winter night?

At the last meeting, I had boasted to the women about the delicious latkes I often prepared from scratch, and they were eager to try some. "It's really very simple and doesn't take much longer to prepare than a mix does," I enlightened my friends at that time. It was too late to worry now. The women would be coming in a few hours, and I had a great deal to do before they arrived.

Opening the cupboard, I was grateful to find a few jars of applesauce. Baruch Hashem for small miracles. I also had on hand all the ingredients I would need to prepare the latkes. Another miracle.

I peeled and grated the potatoes, added the eggs, onions and remaining ingredients, forming a perfect consistency, and began to fry the latkes...

I glanced at the clock. It seemed as though I had been frying latkes for hours. My feet were beginning to ache. "Surely there must be enough by now to feed an army," I said to no one in particular.

It was getting late. I still had to set the table and change into something presentable before my guests arrived. Besides, having the children home from school all day did nothing to improve the appearance of my house. I debated about instructing the children to straighten up, but decided it would be easier to do it myself. The best I could do at this point was remember to think twice before hastily offering my house again in the future.

There was no time to panic... Better latkes from a mix than no latkes at all.

I was so busy worrying about the situation I had gotten myself into, that I failed to realize that things were even worse than I realized! The children had been sampling the latkes faster than I fried them. They had also given latkes to all their friends. The empty platter sat on the countertop; not a clue remained as to what was once inside.

"Where did all the latkes go?" I cried. The latkes were all gone, and the children had disappeared as well.

There was no time to panic; no time to create a scene. "Baruch Hashem for mixes," I declared to myself. No use worrying now about what the women would think. Better latkes from a mix than no latkes at all. I would give them a rain check for fresh latkes another time, if necessary. (Could it be that I already forgot the pledge I had made just moments earlier never to do this again?)

I quickly grabbed a few boxes from the kitchen cupboard and added the eggs and oil as indicated in the directions. (That I had latke mixes in the house was yet another miracle. I was beginning to realize that even when things seemed at their worst, there was good to be found in every situation.) Using my tried and true method, I added some fried onion to the batter to enhance the flavor and give the latkes a home-made texture. I then warned the brood that the new batch of latkes was strictly for the guests. They had eaten more than enough. (The children may have been out of sight, but were certainly within hearing range of my threatening voice.)

Despite the inclement weather, the turnout that evening was excellent. Everyone enjoyed the conversation as well as the tasty latkes and side dishes. The guests lingered long after the latkes were gone. Seeing their happy faces throughout the evening and the empty platters I kept refilling, I knew that the evening had been a success.

While most of the women headed outdoors to the dreaded job of scraping the ice off their windshields, a couple of friends who lived nearby offered to stay and help clean up. It had been a long and difficult day for me, and any help they offered I gratefully accepted.

If people would treat their children as guests and their guests as family, the world would surely be a more joyous place in which to live...

After the last of the guests departed, I replayed the day's events. I had spent a great deal of time preparing latkes (for my friends) from scratch, despite the fact that I was working on an extremely tight schedule. It was precisely at such times that I would have served my family latkes from a mix, or perhaps even the frozen ones, hurriedly placed in the oven to warm. Or maybe no latkes at all.

Ironically, my friends were ultimately the ones to eat the latkes made from the mix, while my family enjoyed the latkes from scratch.

In retrospect, however, I realized that my priorities in the first place had been all wrong. For my family I should have taken the extra time to make latkes from scratch. They would certainly have appreciated the time and effort expended in doing something special for them. Friends who came to visit didn't really care what type of latkes they were served. It was the good company that counted most for them.

"If people would treat their children as guests and their guests as family, the world would surely be a more joyous place in which to live..."

I heard the expression many times, but never gave it more than a passing thought. Obviously we all go to great lengths to make our guests feel comfortable. We often spend hours preparing a special dish (that we know our family would love) only because company is coming. Would we do the same for our families? Probably not. We are too busy, too tired—or perhaps just a bit lackadaisical. Somehow, circumstances at the latke party let me see things in a new light.

Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, teaches us an important lesson in how to conduct ourselves in our daily lives. Just as we increase the lights of the menorah each and every day, so too must we strive to increase our good deeds towards one another (especially toward family members) each and every day, until we merit the coming of Moshiach, may it be speedily in our days.

Sara Gottlieb lives in Oak Park, Michigan and is a frequent contributor to The Jewish Homemaker.