Perhaps you heard that the Pope was in town last week? In typical DC fashion, his visit was preceded by weeks of anxiety around how the heck we would all make it to and from work with the rolling road closures and heavy security. Being a car-less, Metro-less commuter, I could blissfully ignore this preamble and go about my merry way. Until my Wednesday morning run. I was headed up Mass Ave on my usual route, when I was stopped by two policemen at the corner of Rock Creek Parkway. “Ma’am, you need to cross here. You can continue north, but not on this side of the street.” “But that messes with my route,” I heard myself say aloud to the cop, as I dejectedly backtracked a block to Belmont. Continue reading
For the first time in weeks, Matt and I are sitting quietly at home on a Saturday enjoying lunch together. I love these days, when our pace slows down and the stress melts away and we can sit cross-legged on the living room floor and happily eat our midday meal. Today we ate potato salad, full of crunchy fresh vegetables and tossed with a mustard vinaigrette.
Growing up, we ate a lot of potatoes – mashed with extra butter and chicken broth, cut paper thin and doused with Lawry’s seasoning before being oven-fried, or roasted in a cast iron skillet with olive oil and a healthy serving of salt. But everyone’s favorite potato dish was only served once a year at Chanukah time, when mom put me to work peeling potatoes over the kitchen sink. It took me over an hour, peeling potato after potato and watching the skins fall away in a long spiral into the stainless steel basin. One year, I neglected to run the disposal between potato peelings and when I finally tried to flip the switch the sink filled with murky brown and starchy water that refused to drain. Mom spent the rest of the evening plunging and fiddling under the sink. The disposal motor never worked well again. But it was worth these trials to get to the end result, golden brown and crisply fried potato latkes, salty, hot, and dangerously addictive. Whenever my mom’s dad visited, he always requested her latkes. He called them potato pancakes because he could never quite wrap his head around the Jewish words and traditions that his daughter adopted. But he loved latkes and would have been perfectly content eating nothing but latkes for the duration of his visit. Continue reading