Let Proust have his Madeline; I’ll take a potato pancake anytime. Tonight’s were served with knockwurst, but in my memories the best meals consisted strictly of nothing but the pancakes, dressed with either butter or homemade applesauce (or both). The only difference in the recipe between now and then is the addition of finely chopped curly parsley, and wringing the moisture from the grated potatoes (cooks crispier)…. well, that and not having to peel potatoes for a family of 10. Defying all the no doubt well meant warnings about cholesterol, I patted them out on a hot griddle swimming in melted bacon fat, and stood back, spatula in hand, to listen to them sizzle.
As my brother commented on my last post, we were not sterling examples of the Donna Reed Philosophy of Cohesive Family Life in Suburbia. If I remember correctly, Mom once accused us of being born criminals raised by wolves . Since we pretty much lived at the corner of Manic and Main in Dysfunction Junction, she might have had a point. Looking back, my only rebuttal is that one should always check the depth of the water before diving into the gene pool. Neither side of my father’s family tree had ever been sprayed regularly for bagworms, and I’m not sure that Mom’s were any better except for having stronger locks on the closet doors. Dad’s family were known for propping the skeletons up on thrones any chance they got. Come to think of it, Mr. P is still a bit touchy about not being informed before we were married, that Aunt Lyda’s mother took an axe to the children. I don’t see the reason for his concern; it’s not as if she were a blood relative, for crying out loud…….
Humor is probably the best light to view old memories in; it dulls the sharp edges of scenes that once trailed rosaries of blood like a paper cut. There really isn’t any reason to assign blame either… once you can stand far enough away to get a truer perspective than that of “first person”. It would be nice if parents could be perfect, but since perfection is hard to attain for any person, why we should expect it from our parents seems a trifle presumptuous of us. The truth is that outside of a Wasserman, there isn’t any test to see if you qualify for marriage, and none for parenthood.
FOOOOOOOD!!!!! I’m not sure how to react to your plethora of culinary comments. Food is without a doubt a comfort in addition to being a banquet of delightful memories, but with my diagnosis of a defunct pancreas food has become a torturous weakness as well. Dysfunctional or not, one thing for certain is that we ate incredibly well growing up. Not so much in the way of quantity but rather quality. That’s not to suggest that we ever wanted or went hungry. To the contrary it’s a wonder we all didn’t wind up large enough to be profiled on the Discovery Health Channel’s series on obesity: “The Stapling of the Smith Siblings”.
I was spoiled with quality and damn well know it. Hell, we had it so good when it came to food that I have to laugh at most of the so called food connoisseurs and their distorted opinions of fine foods. If the general public had the slightest clue to what constitutes good food McDonald’s would be the first to close its doors and the rest would soon follow.
But I digress. The point I’m getting at is that with all the reference to food and now no longer being able to cater to my former eating habits of a dog, it’s like bringing a recovering alcoholic to a brew fest. It’s not that I can’t eat anything I please its just that I can’t eat as much at any one time and at the moment I’m craving a wheel barrow full of potato pancakes. Oh well, what can one do? I’ll just bask in the memory of when there was no restriction on how much I would try to eat and now focus on savoring the pleasure of actually tasting my food.
Keep on cooking and keep on talking about it. Besides I’m in desperate need of expanding my dietary repertoire with food that actually tastes good and could use some ideas. So, as I read about whatever tantalizing delights you are preparing, I will use it to fortify my willpower against my weakness of excess. As I said in my comment to your last blog, there is therapeutic benefit to your blogs for me as well. Thanks Doc.
Have you seen what Matt & the Mineral Sisters have been doing with “miniature food”? Not horsie doovers, but one bite items that look like the real thing. They had tiny oies baked in mini-muffin pans, and the smallest pitas I’ve ever seen stuffed with tuna spread at Rachel’s (when you were snow bound). ‘ton countered with a 1 meatball sandwich made with a small bun. They were busy thinking up a slew of things that look like shrunken regular items that they could serve if they opened a restaurant based on things that could be eaten with only one hand. Rach should have sent you photos. By the way, Matt the nut case used over 80 real mint leaves to make white chocolate decorations for his edible Christmas wreath. He coated them with melted chocolate, cooled and peeled… repeat….. Time to return to the salt mines. This stupid 2 hour lunch is beyond a bother.