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Wounderfull Potato salad

Is there anything more versatile and delicious than potato salad? For my family, who travel from coast to coast and north to south, recipes from home are the only ones that don’t spoil on the road. Crystal lamps? Of course. Dailyblogspot is an online platform striving to provide you with the best content about current affairs, sports, business, and everything you want.

The plate my mother once got for Christmas when she was still eating grapes? Absolutely. A thousand of them. But the one thing our family, a small army of five, fed every summer at every barbecue with so much mayonnaise that made your heart stop was Grandma’s legendary Gnarly Potato Salad.

Yes, yes, absolutely lousy.

Everything was sliced so thick it took a few minutes to chew. It was the first thing eaten and everything was scraped from the bowl. Making the salad was a family affair, as only an army with poor knife skills could make it as thick and tasty as it was. There was nothing niggardly about it. Each part of our family changed it a little bit. In our family, we started adding cucumbers when my father, who had a green thumb, started growing them in slices and we had no idea how to use them all. Others were more traditional and stuck to the recipe, but added celery to make the dish crunchier. Some added more mustard, others less.

Whatever the variation, it was always up by the time the dish was served and the buffet opened. As a child, I watched my father cook and grill most of the food in the summer. Each time someone volunteered to do some of the prep work. I always had to peel and cut potatoes until my fingers fell off. Sometimes someone drew the short straw and I had to take care of the eggs, which, along with the onions, always left the most persistent smell on my fingers.

For over forty years, Dad was the child of our pleiade of aunts and uncles. As most of his siblings grew older, he was in their grandmother’s kitchen learning to cook classic dishes. Even as a teenager, I took on that role and stood beside him as we mixed meat with egg for meatballs or meatballs or learned to make the perfect mashed potatoes. I want to keep this lesson alive because I once tried to make them myself and they ended up more like mashed potatoes. Oh, how embarrassing!

Not every recipe was a success. I remember the tangy taste of a lime pie she had clipped from household magazines and had long wanted to try because my grandfather’s menu was safe and full of pizza from the little store down the hill. One bite and I felt my lips almost pull back to the tooth line. Not all sweet things are flawless. The last big reunion was a few years after both grandparents had died. The house they had bought long ago was now renovated and modern. No more bright farmhouses and hideous doll rooms. The family came and went, and moved further south to be closer to work or family.

And yet it was there. It was next to the Watergate salad (which wasn’t really a salad) in a big metal bowl or Tupperware container. Everyone knew the taste, everyone knew where to find it. It was next to the hamburgers and hot dogs, which were like a big majestic feast among meat and more.  ; This is our home. It’s the only thing we can take anywhere, and as long as there’s a bowl, fries, eggs, and something crunchy, it’s our home. Now that I’m married, it’s home with me in all its glory.

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