In the old days, people put food in their pockets.

Why?

As a secondary education English major, my roommate has to read a lot of classic books. Meanwhile, the closest thing to a classic I've read in recent memory is Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club. One thing she's observed through these readings is the recurring mention of people stuffing foods in their pockets, Napoleon Dynamite style.

For those baffled at the idea of pocketing food rather than sanitarily using handy-dandy Ziploc containers or baggies, here's a little food for thought.

When my dad was a kid in the '50s, he didn't have his own room. His bed was in the living room, and he spent most of his time on the porch. He lived in a three-floor house in Pittsburgh with three siblings, two parents, two grandparents and some cats in the basement. He was mostly raised by my Aunt Emily, who was 10 years older than him, while his mother played cards during the day. His mother passed away when he was 12. One of Aunt Emily's main memories is pushing my dad down the hill in his stroller - and letting go. Not surprisingly, he is now afraid of pretty much every fast-moving theme park ride that involves hills.

One day when they were kids, Emily and my Uncle Don, her older brother by five years, walked to the store and bought some pickles. The jar was dropped on the way home, and the two immediately began gathering the pickles from the ground. They then put them in - you guessed it - their pockets and trekked home.

So yes, maybe our generation doesn't place foods in pockets quite as much, except for the wonder that is Napoleon Dynamite. But we are blessed with the beauty of Ziploc to take care of our everyday needs.

My dad never throws away leftovers, and neither do I. That's because every time I consider it, I think about my relatives scraping juicy pickles off the concrete, and I continue digging into that week-old spaghetti, as long as it smells all right.

-- Beth

When Bruce Pincus eats a latke, he's looking for a couple things.

He likes pure ingredients, a simple recipe and a final product dripping with oil. But for Pincus, the most important attribute is a latke's nostalgia-inducing abilities.

"I need it to remind me of the latke I ate growing up. None of this new age stuff," he said. "If it makes me think of Grandma's home during Hanukkah, it's a winner."

Pincus was one of about 200 attendees drawn by the promise of latkes and other Jewish cuisine to Congregation Brit Shalom, 620 E. Hamilton Ave., for a kosher hot dog dinner, bake sale and latke cook-off. The event raised money for Hadassah, a volunteer women's Zionist organization.

Though baked goods and hot dogs were popular, the cornerpiece of the evening was the latke cook-off.

The latke is potato pancake, fried in a shallow pool of oil. The standard recipe calls for grated potatoes and onions, salt and pepper, though variations on the fried treat are numerous.

Thursday's cook-off began with a technical difficulty. Unable to start their electric frying pans, the three contestants headed into a nearby kitchen to vie for the crown.

Latkes are a traditional Hanukkah food, because of the shallow oil in which the pancakes are fried. The Hanukkah legend tells of a lamp that burned for eight days on a single day's worth of oil, said Rabbi David Ostrich. In commemoration, Jews eat fried foods, making the latke a perfect candidate for the holiday's cuisine.

They aren't strictly a holiday food, though, which is why the latkes made Thursday were fair game for judges and hungry attendees.

Maxine Levin, of State College, won the cook-off, and gave two possible clues as to her victory.

"I talk to my latkes," she said, and "I use a lot of garlic."