[Image ID: “Friendship ended with MUDASIR / Now SALMAN is my best friend” meme edited to say “Friendship ended with BREAD / Now MATZO is my best friend.” Pictures of challah and rye bread are crossed out in the lower corners, and Salman’s head is covered by a piece of matzo. Happy Passover!]
Tags/Warnings: Discussions of alienation and religion, bad religious puns, kissing, fingering, cunnilingus
Wordcount: 5k
a/n: A sequel to the Tied & Truepairing. This is a commissioned piece. Although I am not religious, I consulted several sources, friends, and the commissioner about the holiday and culture as I wrote this piece. I hope you learn something about Hanukkah or cherish this story as I did.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-
South Korea is beautiful in the winter. The trees shudder with colorful leaves in between sturdy firs. The water looks gray but somehow gives off the crisp smell of the sea. Everyone is layered in fun patterns and colors, and you enjoy not sweating during your morning and evening commutes anymore.
“Merry Christmas!” A shop attendant shouts as you walk by on your way home from work. Well, not everything can be beautiful. You don’t bother smiling today. It’s not uncommon for some brave shop attendants to see the white girl walking through the street and shout out the English phrases they know. “Hello, how are you!” “Want to buy something?” “Happy New Year!” and “Merry Christmas!” They think, oh, you’re white, you must celebrate Christmas. Another overarching stereotype that cuts a bit deeper than being a cowboy or driving large trucks and owning a gun. Someday, you’ll turn around and shout “Happy Hanukkah!” Back just to see what happens. But today was a rough day, and you are desperately homesick as you always tend to be this time of year.
You miss the little things. You miss noticing a cashier’s Star of David necklace, both of your eyes lingering a second longer as she hands the bag over and you say “Happy Hanukkah.” You miss your neighbors as a kid who had a massive, cut-out manora they kept lit through the 12 days of Christmas out of spite. You even miss department stores’ feeble attempts to advertise Hanukkah on Christmas Eve, long past the actual day of celebration.
It’s okay, you remind yourself as you bundle your scarf a little higher and pull your hood a tad lower. Just get home and celebrate with Jin.
Last year, your relationship with Jin was still fresh. There were many intricacies of dating abroad, and understanding the more detailed parts of each other’s cultures tended to come after the honeymoon phase. Even in the United States, there was an odd kind of culture barrier when you dated an atheist or someone raised Christian. You weren’t just American. You were an American and Jewish. When your coworkers asked what Christmas was like back home, you forced a grimace and explained you didn’t celebrate it. The only other option, in their minds, is that you must be atheist. It was hard enough trying to find a space back home. Here in South Korea, the only synagogue is in Seoul. And that’s a ways away from your post. You’d hoped to make it over a weekend or get a days off, but work at the international office had doubled up due to holiday movements. Another reason Christmas sucked.
The familiar stench of frying oil clings to your clothes as soon as the door opens. You’re concerned at first with the light scent of burning, but something else tugs in your throat. A lump builds as you glance inside, the kitchen straight ahead in your small apartment, to see your boyfriend surrounded by potato peels, a strainer, standing over a frying pan. He’s dawned in blue, as he declared to do for the next four days, and he has white and blue party plates set out on the small coffee table.
At the sound of your keypad and clank of the door, Jin practically launches the cooking chopsticks in your direction. The aggravated fear in his eyebrows quickly dissipates when he sees you. With a smile wide enough to crease his eyes, he waves at the mess before him. “Kag Sah-mach!”
You take a deep sigh as you lean against the doorframe, watching him work. This mispronunciation is endearing. It shows that he is learning something unfamiliar to be closer to you.
“Apple sauce or sour cream?” You ask, flexing your toes after the days in heels. Even sitting at your desk all day, your toes are still cramped.
A spoon smacks on the counter. Jin’s hands are firmly on his hip, eyes wide. “Applesauce? With scallions?” He scoffs. “Look, I understand cultural differences, but this is an abomination. An insult. I won’t.”
You laugh, shoulders shaking as you make your way to the counter. You lean over, bopping Jin on his nose. “You truly are the love of my life.”
Jin pauses in his tirade, plump lips bouncing a few times before he tucks away a smile. “That better mean no applesauce.”
You nod affirmatively before heading back into your room to change out of the stiff business clothes and into something more comfortable. You throw on your favorite cardigan since the kitchen is sucking up the heat.
As you walk back out, the muffled sound of crooning weaves in and out of the popping and hissing pan and Jin’s fiddling.
“Is that…” you pause in the middle of sitting. You aren’t sure how to finish the sentence. “Who is this?”
Jin leans over his shoulder at where the iPhone sits in the speaker. “Ed-Eddie Fisher? Do you like him?”
You walk around to Jin’s side in the kitchen. The chill evaporates from the heat of the stove and the light smoke in the air. You give Jin a quick kiss on his cheek and wrap one arm around his waist as he tosses the latkes with his cooking chopsticks. “I have no idea who that is.”
“But he’s Jewish!” Jin argues, pouting down at a latke breaking on the next flip.
You snort. “We don’t have a club.”
Though, a small part of your heart twinges. Even a gimmicky cultural club would be nice this time of year.
Jin shrugs, his already heated cheeks reddening as he mumbles, “Well, it’s a playlist of Jewish musicians, and I thought you’d like it.”
A smile cracks over your face against your better judgement, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cook. You nuzzle into the soft blue fabric of his sweater, inhaling the scent of him that still clings beneath the burnt oil scent. “I love you.”
“I’ve got a latke love to give,” Jin starts giggling before he even finishes the line.
You turn away to hide your own smile and shake your head. “Alright, Casanova. Finish these up and we’ll get the show on the road.”
Jin gingerly places his latkes in a baking dish and dolls sour cream into a bowl for the fridge. After dutifully patting his hands dry, he turns to you ready to go.
The menorah sits on your windowsill in the kitchen space, the only place in the small apartment that it could safely remain for eight days without being toppled over or moved out of the way. The street and smaller apartments beyond were lit up with various levels of warmth that shone like low-level stars when you turned off the kitchen lights to begin. It reminds you of the sacrifices you must make to practice in a foreign country. As you approached, you admired the four candles sitting astutely with the shamash raised higher from behind, sat atop a small inscription of a menorah into the stand. Jin liked it because he felt it was two menorahs in one, so you could use it together.
Jin takes his place propped on the chair next to the window, hands tucked between his thighs as he watches you intently. You light the shamash, gently pulling it from the stem and and hold it over the first candle.
With a slight squint, you assess Jin playfully. “Do you have your notes?”
Jin shoulders draw up in remembrance before he’s ruffling in his back pocket. He unfolds the paper, and the candle light bleeds through to show the phonetic notes you’d written for the prayers when he’d asked last week. He clears his throat playfully, but you can see the slight blush of embarrassment. You want to lean over and kiss his cheek in encouragement, praise him for how hard he’s trying when he didn’t have to.
Alas, there is burning beeswax in your hand. You give him a small nod before you begin softly under your breath. “Bah-rookh ah-tah ah-doh-noi eh-loh-hay-noo meh-lekh hah-oh-lahm ah-sher ki-deh-shah-noo beh-mitz-voh-tahv veh-tzee-vah-noo leh-hahd-lik nayr kha-noo-kah.”
Jin stumbles a bit, humming at times. His eyes never leave his paper, his finger coming up to try and follow along. You smile fondly, trying your best to stay focused. You light the first candle, moving onto the second as you begin again, “Bah-rookh ah-tah ah-doh-noi eh-loh-hay-noo meh-lekh hah-oh-lahm sheh-ah-sah nee-sim lah-ah-voh-tay-noo bah-yah-mim hah-haym biz-mahn hah-zeh.”
When the four candles are lit, you place the shamash back in its stand. Jin scoots over on the couch, patting the space next to him. He saw online that you wait 30 minutes for the candles to burn, and he is determined you must both stare them down until the time is over. The latkes sit in a warmed oven, the smell filling the apartment still and leaving you hungry.
As you watch the candles dwindle, you think back to your ponderings earlier today. Leaving work with the Christmas tree in the lobby, walking by the large Santa display in the open air mall, and the twinkling lights that, while white, somehow had the air of christmas and capitalism shining bright.
Jin isn’t religious, and you knew that. It wasn’t a new phenomena that you hadn’t experienced back home. His surprise when you said you didn’t celebrate Christmas wasn’t new either. Stereotypes tend to be about accents, attitudes, and tropes, but the lasting impression of the United States as “one nation under God” always meant one type of God to those outside of christonormativity. The awkward “oops” from your American co-workers when you respond “happy holidays” when they say “Merry Christmas” followed you here. Sometimes, you feel like a foreigner in your own country. Now, it feels doubled up during the holidays. It’s still hard, though. You wonder if things being hard for you make them hard for Jin.
Jin’s deep breath draws you from your thoughts, but then he lets it out. His tell-tale sign of holding his tongue. You nudge his shoulder, and he grunts. You nudge again. “What? What is it.”
He straightens his posture, lips starting to plump into a pout. “It’s not appropriate.”
You nudge harder, and he topples into the armrest. You mean it playfully, but after your self-conscious thinking, you feel worried. “Now you have to tell me.”
Jin pauses a moment, thumb brushing over the back of your hand before he practically whines. “It’s just really sexy. When you light the menorah.”
Your snicker turns into a snort. “What?”
“I don’t know,” Jin shrugs again, wanting to look down but trying to watch the candles. “Your voice is all soft, the words sound so pretty, and you look like a professional.”
You laugh, grip tightening around his. “A pro?”
“Yes, a professional menorah-er and I want more of her,” Jin asserts.
At such a bad pun, you turn your gaze from the flickering light to stare blankly at him.
Jin, however, misinterprets your look. He wipes a hand over his face, ears impossibly red. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t appropriate, was it? I shouldn’t make jokes about your beliefs. I just… I don’t know what to do when I don’t know what’s going on? You know me.”
Taking his pink cheeks between your own hands, you turn to face him. Eyes downcast, Jin avoids your gaze. You follow, prodding with a gentle, “Hey.” When he doesn’t look up, you huff a warning.
“Baby, look at me,” it does the trick. You soften your gaze, tugging him a tad closer. “You have done so much. You are doing so well. I would never have expected to find someone who cared this deeply for every part of me here, much less buy Hebrew vocabulary books. To know that you want to learn and be a part of this with me is more than enough.”
Jin chuckles self-consciously and places his hands over yours. Broad as he is, he looks so small like this. “You sure?”
You nod. “Want to light the candles together with me tomorrow?”
Jin’s eyes widened. “Is that allowed?”
You cock your head.
“I’m not,” Jin steals a glance to the menorah like it could hear, “Jewish.”
“I think it’ll be okay,” you whisper back. With a small tug, you bring him close enough to rub noses. You thread your fingers through his. Technically, it would be pointless for Jin to light the candles. It would null the occasion for you as well. But if you held hands, if you guided him through it, things would be fine. “You’re not Jewish, but if we hold hands together, like this, I think it will be perfect.”
Jin wriggles his fingers in between yours, a pleased smile alighting his face again.
“And I love your terrible jokes,” you add.
“Wow, terrible, okay then,” Jin tries to appear affronted despite the smile hiding in the curve of his lips. He drops your hands, patting them on his thigh. “We have candles to watch.”
Jin watches with his face awashed in candle light. His wide eyes appear childlike in the warm glow, and it reminds you of being home, children gathered around and eager to hear the same stories, to see this rare and special occasion.
“Do you remember the YouTube video about the candles?”
Jin nods, shuffling his hands between yours. You try to stay focused on your task and not your adorable boyfriend.
“Why did I light these candles?”
“Because the temple was out of oil.”
You nod, resting your head on his shoulder now. “Do you want to hear about a time when I wasn’t a professional?
“You mean you weren’t always perfect?” Jin asks in mock surprise.
With a roll of your eyes, you begin, “Did I ever tell you I almost lit my childhood home on fire?”
When Jin barks a laugh, you continue.
You gesture before you both as you animate the story. “My father finally let me light the candles myself. Which, honestly, this next part is on him. You see, the menorah should be near the front door, and we had this beautiful entry rug. I was excited to be given the duty of lighting our family’s menorah, so I was a bit jittery. And we had this dog-”
“Oh no.”
“Who was a really rambunctious little puppy. And he loved me.”
“Who wouldn’t.”
“And so I went to light the shamash, picked it up, and here comes Brownie whirling around the corner with the zoomies. I scream, drop the candle as I jump out of the way, and burn a massive hole in the carpet. My father didn’t even let me light my own menorah for the next two years.”
Jin glances down at the floor. “Is that why you moved the runner away from the windowsill?”
You roll your lips, caught by your own story. “It needed cleaning.”
Jin glances at the bare floor, the candles, and back to you a few times. “Right.”
“Nevermind, let’s just watch in silence,” you end quickly.
The minutes pass as you sit there wrapped up in each other, Jin occasionally referencing new cylindrical objects that the candles remind him of. Finally, they start to burn out.
“Is it done?” Jin asks after 30 minutes on the dot. “It’s done I think.”
“I don’t know, you sure?” You ask.
“You better eat a latke before I shove it in your face,” Jin starts, trotting over to the oven to check on his goods. You stretch, heading over to the coffee table and taking a seat with crossed legs.
“Make sure you put some sour cream on it first. I need the full impact,” you sass back. Jin barks a laugh, shaking his head as he gets the sour cream bowl from the fridge. He walks over, bowl in one hand and platter in the other, a beaming smile on his face. When he’d found the recipe, he was relieved. It was similar to Pa Jun, so he confidently whipped it up the first night. Still, he manages to make a mess each time somehow.
He sets both the items before you, hand waving over the dish as he asks, “Could I offer you a latke, my dear?”
You giggle and nod, leaning forward with your mouth open. Jin obliges, and your eyes roll back at the delicious, savory taste. “Mmm.”
“Stop that,” Jin says immediately, shoving another piece into your mouth.
You smile through your chewing. When you first met Jin, you’d commented on how he made eating food sound like an erotic exprience. He’d been afronted, but when you started copying him, he’d unfortunately been turned on by it. “MMMM.”
Jin aims a spoon of sour cream at your face, but you take his wrist before he can smear it over your nose (as he did yesterday). Catching his gaze, you trace the side of the spoon with your tongue, flicking off the end before you lean back in your seat to finish your bite.
“This is sacrilege,” Jin draws the spoon close protectively. “Of my cooking and Hanukkah.”
“It’s your own fault,” you shrug, taking another piece. It crunches between your teeth before meshing with the soft potato center. “Your cooking is soooo good.”
“I know that without you moaning over the table,” Jin jabs, but his voice fades a bit at the end.
“Don’t you want to make me moan over this table?” You ask with a quirk of your eyebrow, palm smoothing over the dark wood finish.
“When you said you couldn’t work after the candles were lit, I didn’t know it meant I had to do all the work,” Jin quips back as he rubs at his neck. He stares longingly at the dishes he’ll wash, but you know he’s referring to his own amendment– he’d be doing all the work with you, too. Moving the latkes aside as he leans over the table towards you, he gives your nose a greasy kiss before carrying the dishes away.
You watch him go, a slim waist silhouetted through the thin blue sweater. He turns the music back on once the dishes are in the sink, then turns to you with bright eyes. “I know this one.”
You listen for a second, recognizing the crooner. “Elvis is not Jewish.”
“According to my Spotify playlist, he indeed is,” Jin corrects, swaying his hips as he makes his way toward you. He winks with an extended hand, “C’mon, let me spin you like a dreidl.”
“That is your worst joke yet.” You’re pulled to your feet, arm fitting around Jin as you take his other hand. With another blush, Jin places his free hand on your shoulder and lets you lead the slow two step in the tiny space of the living room.
It’s silly. Swaying in the small space of a Busan apartment to Elvis while celebrating Hanukkah. It’s not where you ever thought you’d see yourself. But as you rest your forehead against Jin’s, there’s nowhere else you want to be at this moment. He hums quietly, only speaking to sing “falling in love with you.” Your smile starts to ache, nose tracing his and brushing his lips on the occasional you.
It’s tempting and teasing, all light fun. When you go to finally press your lips to his, he raises your joined hands high to send you into a spin. You giggle, throwing your arm out in a show of theater before spinning back in. Your fingers twist and twine as your cardigan billows out around you. This time, you’re to his back, his other hand clasping yours and wrapping them around you.
“I love this,” you murmur. Jin’s lips find your neck, nuzzling there as the song plays out to its end, arms holding you tighter. Your swaying slows a bit, Jin’s resting lips starting to move, tracing the slope of your neck.
“HEY BABY!”
You both startle as the playlist finally moves from jazzy tunes into the 80s. A synth beat bumps through the room.
“Baby! Pick your head up!”
“You have got to be kidding me,” you groan. Paula Abdul’s voice floods the space, destroying the warm ambience. Jin, on the other hand, has started shaking his hips, hands trying to move you to the beat.
“You’re forever my girl,” Jin chimes in. He’s got your hand and trying to make you do the disco move. “I like this one.”
“Of course you do,” you spin in his arms, placing your hands on his shoulder as you both rock more to the beat. Jin pushes you back for a second, doing his only quick jig before bringing you back in. “What is this, a dance off?”
“If that’s what you want,” Jin smiles. His cheeks are bunched, eyes creased and twinkling from the lamp. Instinctively, your hands trace from his shoulders to his collarbones, down his middle. Jin swallows, the touch of your fingers ghosting under the hem of his sweater.
“I want your clothes off,” you sing to the beat. Jin obeys, shaking his hips and shoulders as he raises his hands. His skin is smooth as your hands replace the fabric, tracing over all that is yours. He quickly does the same, tracing down your arms to drag the cardigan from your shoulders, and–
The music stops.
“Really?” Jin asks, mid-hip pop. He points at the iphone as though its in control of the selection. “That’s what it’s going to end on?”
“Doesn’t mean we have to end,” you remind Jin with a finger on his chin, turning his attention to you. You tuck your chin at your half-undressed body. “Where were you?”
It feels different. The evening had been an array of emotions. The uncomfortability of the walk home, the familiarity of smells cooked by someone new, stressing by the candlelight and dancing in the living room. And now, in the silence and warmth of the apartment, Jin takes you in. Lounge shorts, tanktop, bare feet covered by a crumpled cardigan, breath probably smelling of scallions.
And when he moves towards you, there’s so much intention. There’s a practice in the way he kisses the straps before rolling them down your shoulder. In how he moves to your neck, planting light kisses there until his own eager hands cause him to move, pulling the top over your head. When you bring your arms down, they land on his bare shoulders again but travel upwards, tracing his blushing ears and carding through his thick, black hair.
You take a deep breath of him and tug at the roots and he moves closer, bodies pressed together as he fumbles to pull down the shorts. And to your surprise, he does in fact lower you onto the coffee table. You shudder at the cold top against your ass, but Jin stays close, kneeling between your thighs. His hands trace your spine as he watches your expression, searching for something.
“What is it?” He asks.
“What?” you whisper, blinking a few times.
You feel it. The stinging of tears. Jin gently wipes the back of his finger under each eye. You didn’t know you were crying. You can’t think of much to say other than, “Oh.”
Jin blinks slowly, gently rubbing circles. Suddenly, the sounds of the room are too loud. The rustle of his pants, the breathing threatening to transition into sobs. The small sniff you give.
“Is it hard?” He asks just as softly as before.
The question shocks you. It’s oddly intuitive and raw. Not masked in a joke or a passive chance to leave the topic be. Something inside of you pours out with yes. Yes, it is hard. It always has been in a sense. And it only will continue to be. But some things this time, they feel easier. Happier. Homier. With him.
You just nod, scared more tears will come out. Scared of what you’ll say. Scared in the happiest way that he knew. That he asked. He grips your waist to pull you closer, deep black eyes gazing up at you so close that you can tell when he flicks between your watering eyes.
“What do you need from me?” Jin asks after a moment.
“I–” you don’t need anything more from him, you realize. Your grip tightens intuitively. “This. I just need this.”
Jin nods, wiping a falling tear again. His own voice is a bit croaky, moved by your hurt, probably troubled that he can’t prevent it. “I’ll give you anything. I want to give you anything. If it’s this, that’s not so hard.”
You smile as a small hiccup breaks through your throat. Jin swallows it down, pressing his lips to yours, lingering between each press as he starts to lean forward, laying you across the table. There’s a different heat in his touch. Not a fervent desperateness that you are used to feeling when he’s hard and needy beneath you. It’s a need and desire to give you what you need, to be hesitant in order to find the best way to serve you. And it makes your heart tighten beyond the sadness.
“I love you,” you finally whisper. Jin smiles, pressing a kiss to your lower jaw. He moves down, hands tracing over your waist, your thighs, kissing down the length of your body with hot, open-mouthed kisses. His lips cling to your skin, breaking only to move elsewhere. HIs hands start to grab, kneading your flesh, feeling you there, present. The sensations pull you into the moment, into him.
It’s a quiet love. Each night, in Jin’s declaration of keeping you from working, he’d pleasured you. The first had been demanding on your part, playing your role. The next had been giggly, similar to moments earlier. But this felt different. Jin fused appreciation and adoration into each of his touches. And when his fingers finally found your mound, cupping gently as he nipped at your thighs to open wider, you already found yourself soaking wet. There’s a power in claiming someone, but for that person to show they belong to you and treasure you just as much is overwhelming.
Jin’s fingers slide into you, the knuckles pushing in easily. You gasp, reaching for his hair to feel him. He moans at the sensation of you clenching, fingers already curling. His hot breath puffs teasingly over your clit as he rocks his fingers a bit, in gentle waves that match the heavy breaths you share.
Then, as sweetly as he’d kissed you, he places a kiss over your folds. It deepens, mouthing closer, tongue darting out to tease you too gently. It has your own mouth opening, moaning, practically able to envision the movements from the memory of his kisses on your lips. He deepens the thrusts, tongue now firmly pressed through your folds, working slowly as he sucks in. He’s drawing it out, wanting to taste you, to feel the way you clench in need of more. It’s unruly of him to not listen to your body, but you realize maybe he’s listening to other needs. The need to be wanted, cherished, to feel seen. And as you lift your head, you see he is watching. He watches the tension in your stomach, the rise of your breasts, the way you curl your lips in at the agitation for more. But he doesn’t quicken, doesn’t slow, just continues to be there in the moment of your pleasure.
It overtakes you, the communication through his movements, and you find your back arching off the table, jaw locked as you whine through the first crash of your orgasm. Jin moans in return, lapping gently as his fingers continue to rock and curl deeper inside of you. As the grip in his hair loosens, he works harder, tongue batting over your clit, fingers faster, pulling another orgasm from you within minutes. At this, you curl upward, leaning over him, legs shaking as you can’t decide whether to pull him away or draw him in. He traces his wet lips over you, kissing your thighs, the curve of your groin, to your stomach, fingers gently pushing as you catch your breath over him.
When he finally makes his way over your sides to your breasts, you take his lips, fingers tight in his hair to guide him, drinking down his own moans at the sudden pain. You nip at his swollen lips, lick the taste of yourself off his tongue, and inhale the hot breath of victory. He’s smiling as you reward him with kisses to his cheeks, his forehead. He finally slides out, wrapping his arms around you to pull you close again.
“Happy Hanukkah,” he whispers as your kisses slow.
“Now that’s sacrilege,” you snicker. Jin avoids your swatting hand and picks up his sweater to pull over your head. You shake the sleeves down far enough to cover your fingers, and Jin searches for your shorts. Holding them open, you step in each foot. He rises and brings the shorts with him.
Then, he bears hugs you before collapsing onto the couch with you in tow. You squawk, but he keeps you safe against his chest. You want to scold him, but you find yourself snuggling in closer. As you lightly trace over his forearm, you ask, “what about you?”
“Later,” is all Jin says, shaking his hips against your ass. You don’t push it, knowing Jin can be honest with what he wants. “Want to watch the Hanukkah Song?”
You stop tracing his arm at that, shoving it away. “You’re the worst.”
“Oh am I?” He asks, playfully nipping at your ear.
“Keep this up, and I’m going to tie you to the bedpost and leave you there.”
“Sounds hot,” Jin nips at your ear again.
You roll your eyes. “There’s no winning with you.”
Jin smiles bright, picking up the remote. “I’m already the biggest winner because I have you.”
“That was too cheesy,” you fake a gag.
“Not as cheesy as this song,” Jin starts, but he muffles his way through the last bit as he tries to hold you down as you fight to get away. You end up bursting into giggles as the grabbing turns into tickling. You both fumble on the couch until Jin’s beneath you, pesky hands held down. His body betrays him, hips bucking a bit as you sit atop him, and you smirk. But when you lean in to kiss him, it’s filled with love.
“Thank you for my happy hanukkah,” you say before pulling him in for another round.
It is time once again for me to cause channukah related chaos. I just had my roommate (goyische) rank hannukah songs based on a singular listen. Here’s their takeaway
Mi Yimalel won, which was definitely influenced by the bluegrass cover of it we found on YouTube.
Anyway I present this to the Jews of Tumblr for maximum chaos. What songs were scorned? What songs should have been included but weren’t? Why does hannukah only have like 18 catchy songs? The world may never know.
Image Description: a hand drawn bracket of hannukah songs. The songs in the bracket are
