Imagine a plaintive little voice.
“Is red potato or white potato best for potato salad?”
It was on our neighborhood listserv, and some 50 people responded. Most said “Red,” except the man who claimed he’d made a big pot of Idaho golden potatoes, and a woman proposed marriage on the spot. “I gave her husband the recipe.”
I live in south Louisiana, where food discussions turn into arias. “Mustard, always.” “No sweet pickle relish.” “Sneak in sweet potatoes. See if anyone notices.”
Even in a plague, we know that food is love.
That’s always been true. My Jewish-Polish grandparents survived on potatoes and helped invent latkes. When my Irish father, raised on “praties,” tasted my mother’s potato salad, he was smitten for life.
I swoon for potato chips.
And at my mother’s memorial service, her friend Joan sidled up: “What’s the secret to her potato salad?”
Would Mom roll over in her grave? Not likely. (She was cremated). She believed food is love. And so I spilled.
P. S. It’s sour cream onion dip mixed with mayonnaise, in equal parts.
I will have to ask Roz to try this on New Year’s Day. Did your Mom also include diced onions?
Yes, or you could call them minced onions (she used to use a hand grater long ago, before Cuisinart). She also put in a grated carrot or so for color, some chopped celery, a dash of celery seed, and sometimes a splash of vinegar. But the key thing was the dip, and the particular brand she used in Cleveland, Sealtest, has been devoured by a larger corporation. So it may not be possible to be totally authentic! Thanks for asking. I enjoyed writing this.
Emily Toth