You didn't move all the way from New York to Alaska to reconnect with Judaism.

And yet, here you are, engaged in that time-honored Jewish tradition: telling your kids they can't have a Christmas tree.

Although your daughter has been asking for several holiday seasons, this year she's old enough to construct more compelling arguments. She's also enlisted her little brother, a precocious disputant in his own right. They don't often caucus together, but when they do … man, that filibuster can last forever.

Let the record show, they've also asked for a ferret — thankfully, that proposal died in committee. But Christmas trees present a thornier issue.

Fusion Judaism

You yourself practice a "fusion" Judaism, or "Fudaism." You conceive of ideas like frying potato "latkes" in bacon fat and impregnating matzo balls with ground beef. You call it the "Meatsoball" (patent pending).

But really, you're Jewish by convenience. For instance: while watching "Seinfeld." Or cursing in Yiddish (the only vocabulary you know). Or trying to preserve a shred of the cultural identity that brought your great-grandparents to this country in the first place.

Easier said than done. Living in the middle of a boreal forest, you're literally surrounded by Christmas trees, at least according to your 6-year-old son, who points them out, one after another, from the backseat.

"Christmas tree, dad, another Christmas tree, dad, more Christmas trees, dad."

Disavowing him — "no, that's actually a western hemlock, that's a yellow cedar and those are Sitka spruce" — would ruin the rest of the drive for everyone.

Alaska itself serves as a constant Yuletide reminder. Up here, it begins to look a lot like Christmas as early as October (not always, but it's easy to recall Halloween snowball fights; one year, a stretch of minus-10 temperatures freeze-dried everybody's jack-o'-lanterns). And walking in a winter wonderland often remains a popular pastime through April.

Not to mention all the "false" Santa Clauses. The U.S. census puts Alaska's population at 731,450; how can half those people be pot-bellied old guys with big white beards?

We've got North Pole

Plus, where else on Earth do you find actual reindeer? OK, fine, Norway, Finland, Sweden, Siberia, Greenland and Canada. But do they eat Rudolph for breakfast? Or grind Donner into chili before nailing Blitzen's antlers to their mailbox?

And there's only one North Pole. Well, actually, that's not entirely true, either. You've got Geographic North Pole, Magnetic North Pole and the hamlet of North Pole in the Adirondacks … But there's only one incorporated city of North Pole, and it's in Alaska, 99705. And that place is filthy with false Santas.

Of course, you recognize Christmas trees are more secular symbols than religious. And you like Christmas. It's hard not to love a holiday that demands two months of eggnog.

You're not a Grinch or a Scrooge or a Charlie Brown from that other holiday special. You've got no problem saying "Merry Christmas," and you don't get your yarmulke in a twist when someone says it to you. You're pro-merriment, in any form.

But while the "War on Christmas" isn't your war, it's not your holiday, either.

And that, you ultimately tell your children, is why they can't have a tree, no matter how tempting the excuse to run the chainsaw.

Obviously, there'll be fallout, by which you mean meltdowns. Whoever wrote "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" never spent winter recess with two disappointed kids. You'll take a scorned woman, any day.

And so, instead of focusing on a holiday you don't celebrate, you vow to make something special of the one you do.

Festival of Northern Lights

This year and henceforth, you'll create a Hanukkah to top all Hanukkahs. Yes, the Great Alaskan Hanukkah, or, as you'll call it, "Alaskanukkah: The Festival of Northern Lights."

Break out that old menorah and put on your dreidel-spinning shoes. For eight nights you're going to party like it's 165 BCE!

Little background. Hanukkah, aka "the Festival of Lights," celebrates a small band of ancient Hebrews who, after defeating the Syrian-Greek army and liberating Jerusalem, rededicated the Holy Temple — of which the Western Wall still stands — by lighting one day's worth of oil that miraculously lasted eight until more could arrive from neighboring traders. Hence lighting a ceremonial eight-candled Hanukkah menorah.

Point is, aside from providing the first documented warning about over-reliance on foreign oil, Hanukkah holds little religious significance. Perfect, as the prime purpose of Alaskanukkah will be supporting our consumer-based economy. After all, even in Alaska, we're still part of America: land of the free, home of the Whopper®.

In keeping with the seasonal tradition of consuming salt, fat and sugar, you will cook "latkes," which are essentially deep-fried hashbrowns (hence frying them in bacon fat). Added bonus, the other traditional Hanukkah food: doughnuts. Not only will you highlight this ritual in Alaskanukkah celebrations, turns out you've been observing it all along, every time you go to Fred Meyer.

But for now, better string up some lights around the deck. For Alaskanukkah, yes, but also to see the grill better. Last night you totally scorched some Alaskanukkah reindeer sausage, which was like getting a lump of coal in your stocking, only you had to eat it. And you almost ran out of ketchup. Thankfully, the dregs of that bottle lasted way longer than expected. Maybe not eight nights, but long enough to avert another kiddie caucus, at least for one meal.

Now that was a true Alaskanukkah miracle.