It rained between 6:00 and 8:00 as I laid in bed trying to convince myself I didn't need to pee. When I finally drug it out of bed, CaDiva had made coffee and tea, and was starting the potatoes for salad today. Actually it is for the early part of the week too. Something about potato salad, like so many others, tastes even better the second or third day.
I'm of the opinion that all people believe potato salad is best when made the way their mother made it. I know I adore The Mother's potato salad, even though it is not anything like CaDiva's. My memories are of her yellow mustard squirts into the tail end of a jar Miracle Whip until the color was right. Then sprinkles of sugar with periodic tastes to determine if the mustard bite had been mitigated. Sometimes, my opinion was solicited.
I don't care who you are, potato salad needs celery. You may be yeah or nay about eggs, but you must use celery. Ok, you should use onion too. The Mother always had yellow onions in the house. As I have matured, I found a taste for red. And CaDiva's recipe calls for cilantro, which is now one of my favorites, even though it was originally added by mistake. All that aside, The Mother's is the "right" potato salad. CaDiva's is still really very incredibly good.
Not to mention, The Mother only ever shares hers with HRH now days.
After 10 years together this month, I have to admit I prefer CaDiva's cooking to pretty much everyone else's. We all recognize she is an excellent baker. There is an ancient blog, circa 2007, where a woman described her cookies and people skills. You need to scroll passed a lot of undecipherable header nonsense since the blog is cached. It is a fun read if you know her, Anyway, back on topic, her cooking is equal parts precision (she is the Queen of Meticulocity), inventiveness, and care. She has exposed me to so many different types of food. Still it is her cooking that remains my favorite.
I'm not talking different cultures when I say different types. Although she is seriously Italian with Irish, compared to my German with Irish. (By the way, German Potato Salad is wrong, just wrong.) By different, I mean things like Angel Hair, Linguine, Fettuccine, and Thin Spaghetti pastas. Cheeses like brie and Havarti, (yes to the brie and no the Havarti). Sauces that don't start with meat drippings or Hunts tomato paste. Did you even know tri-tip was a meat? Or that Chef Boy-R-Dee ravioli isn't?
We don't both like the same things. I adore Swiss, she likes American, we settle on provolone. Still, I'll try anything three times, and not just to freak out HRH.
To compare this to my childhood you needed to meet my younger brother. His birthday is this month, along with HRH, mohrh, a cousin, a great aunt (who was actually the step sister of my grandmother) and an uncle (who converted to Jehovah's Witness so he didn't count his birthday). Next year, he would have had a speed-limit year. SQUIRREL! Anyway, I'm back. Seaneebo used to insist if it wasn't chili, it wasn't soup. If it wasn't red, it wasn't jello. If it wasn't grape, it wasn't jelly.
He also thought all cats were female and all dogs male. And when a cat had babies the boys were puppies and the girls were kittens. So I don't know if I want to live by his view of the world. I do often wonder how that view would have changed by now.
In any case, it is going to a hot, sticky Sunday. And I'll have potato salad while I apply for some different jobs. But that is a whole other blog. I'm going to hide inside and pretend Monday isn't as close as it is.
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