Upstairs
From the top of the stairs.
One of the best things about the new house is that we are approximately 450 meters from my sister-in-law and her family. I’m extremely lucky; my brother-in-law is one of my best friends, my sister-in-law is hilarious, and my nieces are the perfect combination of adorable kids experiencing the world for the first time, and terrible pre-teens who have zero filter and a unique lens of the world.
Yesterday I went biking with bro-in-law and the nieces and afterward we discussed bbq hamburger dinner plans. We knew Hamburgers would be the centre of this family feast, granted that means three different types of patties at this point, but that’s a whole other blog post.
The oldest of the two nieces, the ten year old, asked what else we would be having. I replied something about some salads, and the oldest looks me dead in the eye and says: “do you think gramma will make her potato salad?” Responding quickly and without thinking, I said “well she probably hasn’t started it, but I could make you some potato salad.” The 10 year old replies, “oh, no thanks. We like gramma’s better.” Incredulous, I ask “so you’d rather have no potato salad than my potato salad? Ten year old: “Yep. Your’s is terrible.” Not to be left out, the eight year old chimes in with an affirming “Yep, terrible.”
Clearly on this day they were closer to teens than toddlers. We’ll see how they feel in a couple years when they call in the middle of the night for bail, and I tell them to call gramma.
Downstairs
For starters, I’d bail those kids out of jail any day of the week – just saying
My grandmother made the best scones. She learned to cook in the olden days when milk was measured in ‘glugs’ and close enough was good enough as far as the rest of the ingredients went. She could whip those scones up with a moment’s notice. They were my favorite.
My mother didn’t have a specialty, her interests lay elsewhere, she cooked because children get hungry. As kids we didn’t know Mom’s cooking was sub-par – she could make the best peanut butter sandwiches in the whole world.
My dad was a salesman and on the road three weeks out of four. Mom made a lot of meat and potato meals during the week when Dad was home but as soon as he and his suitcase drove up the street the pressure was off the cooker.
I was twelve before I learned spaghetti dinner didn’t come out of a can nor was it generally served on toast. Mom could ‘on toast’ just about anything; pork and beans, creamed peas, poached eggs; toast was a staple at our house – so were potatoes.
Mom used to say we inherited our love of potatoes from our ancestors who grew them in Ireland. There wasn’t much Mom couldn’t do with a potato – mash’em, roast’em, bake’em or turn them into salad – she was a potato wizard.
I started my married life with all the culinary skill I’d honed from home – I could make great toast and a mean potato salad.
Our secret family recipe for my granddaughter’s favorite potato salad is simple; potatoes, hard boiled eggs, some onions and a ‘whap’ of Miracle Whip. The ‘whap’ is the secret ingredient – it’s never been measured. Much like my grandmother’s ‘glug’ my mother’s ‘whap’ was instinctual, almost genetic. It’s a skill you inherit – or don’t.
Unfortunately for those who have tasted the miracle of my mother’s potato salad no other potato salad will ever hit the mark. Unless one of the kids inherits the ‘whapping’ gene the secret recipe will die with me – those darling, almost perfect, granddaughters may be cursed more than blessed for the rest of their lives.
As for the ‘on toast’ing’ gene, I inherited that as well. Unfortunately my new husband wasn’t as impressed with it as I’d hoped – my menu has expanded considerably from those early days.