By Andrea Simantov

My fondest childhood memories involve rituals.

The end of August meant riding a NYC bus with Mom to buy a new plaid book bag, 10 black & white speckled notebooks and a utilitarian pair of Buster Brown shoes. A routine visit to the pediatrician meant clean underwear, coloring books and, if there was an injection, a compensatory milk shake. Passover meant spring-cleaning, jellied fruit slices and sleepover guests. But what made these rituals even more poignant - reflecting today from the podium of middle age - is the special role my mother played.

Mom always stood center stage and orchestrated the rituals of our lives, reveling in her role as the indomitable Jewish woman.

Despite the spotlight on Judah Maccabee and his buddies, Chanukah was always a woman's holiday in my home. I felt a natural affinity for righteous radicals including Judith, the beautiful daughter of Yochanan the High Priest.

Judith appeared before the Greek general and seductively fed him dairy foods until he became thirsty. Plying him with wine until he got drunk and fell asleep, this determined young woman severed his head and carried it to Jerusalem. Needless to say, the Syrian soldiers ran for the hills.

Threatening death to transgressors, the Greeks prohibited many important rituals, yet Jewish women had their babies circumcised, thus stating: we will observe what is holy to us even at the risk of death.

Inspired by these brave women, Matisyahu and his five sons eventually rose up, paving the way for Hanukah miracles.

Talk about the feminine power of persuasion. Chanukah is one holiday when I intrepidly enter the kitchen and, using an old but serviceable blueprint, locate the stove. Wielding a dusty heirloom cast-iron skillet, I gather my young'uns around me and impart all aspects of the holiday including the special fat-laden cuisine.

Affectionately referring to this holiday of lights as the ‘peptic ulcer season,’ I introduce such epicurean delights as Croquettes du Pomme Frites (the Eastern European shtetl latke) and Gala Puff-Pastry Surprise (in Brooklyn, the Donut).

Every year, come the holidays, I search every storage shelf until I find a carton filled with ceremonial objects specific to the holiday at hand. With Chanukah’s approach, I urgently pull multi-colored Purim baskets out of storage trunks until I find the precious box, which typically heralds winter in Israel.

This year's bonus find was a set of misplaced hand weights and a grainy, 1987 exercise video. Blinking back tears, I peer inside and find myself staring into yesteryear. I behold nursery school art pieces made of painted plywood - some of the metal-bolt candleholders still firmly attached.

Another creation, composed of gray clay and embedded walnut shell halves, is heavier than I remember. A patina of burnt olive oil remains - shiny, black and fragrant.

I am grateful for the gift of foresight in not holding onto the infamous Raw Potato Candelabrum. I can't recall whether it was a theme piece with the latke tradition, or a subtle tribute to Irish Jewry.

The smell of doughnuts traumatizes me. This may have something to do with the time I volunteered to purchase them for our local nursery school. Carrying a covered tray of 50 jelly-filled sufganiot, I attempted to leap over a dirty puddle wearing an already too-tight skirt. Suddenly I found myself lying face up in the service road of a major Jerusalem thoroughfare. My stockings and coat were torn but it was my already-fragile ego that sustained the greatest injury. I rallied, however, upon hearing the gathered crowd applaud, as one onlooker gently lifted the loosened plastic wrap and announced, in several languages, that all 50 pastries were intact.

Chanukah allows me to display a glaringly under-appreciated musical acumen. Perched in front of an out-of-tune Baby Grand piano, I merrily plunk out several lively tunes from a "Harvest of Jewish Music." My children listen in a near-catatonic state and some actually sing along with me - between fits of laughter.

Laughter aside, I'm continually amazed at the important role ritual has played in my own life. There is comfort to be found in the smallest of acts. By reenacting the traditions of my mother and foremothers, I can practice self-expression while simultaneously remaining connected to the larger tapestry of Jewish culture and history.

Andrea Simantov is a Jerusalem-based columnist and mother of six.