Every now and then, I feel like I might be losing my identity. It started innocently enough today while I was in my 8th hour of splitting wood this weekend. I was listening to the Splendid Table podcast episode 758: Summer Parties with Nicole A. Taylor. She is the author of the new cookbook, Watermelon and Red Birds and also The Up South Cookbook: Chasing Dixie in a Brooklyn Kitchen.
Ms Taylor, after hearing you describe how you create your potato salad, I believe I would have a difficult time not trying it. This is where the conflict begins. Potatoes and I, well to put it lightly, things have not been good. My parents tried SO hard to get me to eat potatoes. My father, unstoppable when determined could not win in the battle to get me to eat this starch at any age. I was raised in the age before microwaves. In the early 70's you were not American unless you served potatoes at seemingly every meal. I was not allowed to get up from the table, until the potatoes were gone, which meant, I never left the table, until bedtime. This was before microwaves, so in the morning, the cold plate of potatoes was placed before me for reconsideration. I did not yield.
My father told the story of the period of time in which I seemed to be eating the potatoes. At least that is what he thought until the kitchen developed an odor. We had those old chrome leg, vinyl-covered kitchen chairs that were popular in the 1950s. Ours had cracks in the vinyl, which to a young person like me, offered a rare opportunity. In retrospect, my father was pretty proud of me for my creativity. At the time, I am sure there was probably some good old-fashioned spanking.
Flash forward to 1979, we were living on James street in Bristol CT and my wonderful mom had been making a homemade beef stew from scratch. A jar fell off the back of the stove and broke in the stew pot. Because of the broken glass, we threw away the stew and drove down to the McDonalds in Bristol center and ate in the Dodge. At the time, I felt it was the best thing ever since the stew contained potatoes. The ungrateful fourteen-year-old self that I was, rejoiced. If you are reading this Mom, I am sorry. I know you worked hard to make that stew. It was a Thursday night and you worked all day. I appreciate both, the homecooked meal and the fast food.
People still just cannot understand how significant this is for me. Even social media cannot comprehend my unique, by which I mean "correct" perspective. How many times on Facebook do I see one of those inane scorecards that list like 50 foods and you have to count 1 point for every food you hate, except, there are NO POTATOES listed on this scorecard! It is starting to feel political now! Because of this, I tend to score zero on these.
In a coffee pals survey at work, we were asked the question, "If you could only eat one meal every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?" My manager answered "Shepherds Pie". It struck me as funny because his favorite basically is my definition of hell.
After years of marriage, my own wife called me weird last night and gave me that speech that I have heard a thousand times about how "I have never met anyone before you who does not like potatoes." The years of resistance still not sinking in. Is this that difficult to comprehend? I have been pretty straightforward about this, well except for that strange Cravin's incident in 2010.
In June of 2010, my son Noah returned to the ICU for 10 days, 18 months after his big stay there at the hospital for aesthema-related treatment. I went down to Cravin's store in the hospital food court area to get lunch for Donna and I. Donna stopped after the first bite of her mashed potatoes with a look of surprise. "Wow! These potatoes are great!" "Like that can happen" I murmured under my breath. "No, seriously! You need to try these!" Something about her drive on this subject made me think, "I probably won't die!"
The next thing I know, I assimilated the taste and texture (both of which I was born to hate), and then I took another. "I actually don't hate this!" 2 more spoonfuls. "I might actually like these." Suddenly, Rod Serling was standing there facing the camera talking about a man who had just taken a hard right turn, into the Twilight Zone. "I feel like everything I ever knew was wrong!" Donna definitely enjoying my joining the potato drones of the world.
Later when I inquired about the potatoes at the store I found out they came from one of those Sysco food service squeeze bags. I felt so violated until I talked with another guy at the store later on who assured me some serious "doctoring-up" was happening to make them taste like they did.
I don't know who that guy was from temporary insanity land that day, but I can tell you now, he scared me. If you can't trust yourself.
I know the struggle to help people understand that I must come from a parallel universe in which potatoes either do not exist or they are an invasive species. Because even tonight, Donna asked me if I wanted a potato pancake that she engineered from leftover mashed potatoes. I declined of course.
I can honestly say that I cannot remember ever tasting potato salad. I am sure that I was forced to perhaps in a dental-style chair with belts restraining me, or was that a dream. Anyway, Nicole A. Taylor your description of potato salad, the people who make it, the art that it is, and most profoundly, your potato salad, I promise to try your recipe if I ever have the pleasure of meeting you. I may be from a potato-hating parallel universe, but what could possibly stand against the heart and soul of what you described when talking about potato salad.
Until then, please don't pass the potatoes.
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