The Dreaded Latke Pudding Hurler Of Taipei-On-Sea
Presented to you(z) with the compliments of The League Of Burmese Trombonists and The Associated Association Of Reformed Jewish Llamas [sick].
Homesickness can strike one at the most inopportune times, like, say while trying to teach a flock of 3-year-olds the words to ‘London Bridge’ (not that this has ever happened to me, well except for the bit about teaching ‘London Bridge’ to 3-year-olds). And it can strike in the most unlikely of ways. For me, this is manifesting itself in the desire to incorporate ‘Shosholoza’ and Mango Groove music into my morning kindy Exercise Time routines and, what else with me would it be but, food. Glorious food. Think South African food and the obvious tendency is to go for the biltongs and braaivleis [jerky and barbecue for the uncultured]. Personally, when I crave Food From Home it’s usually my gran’s Shabbas food - potato latkes, roast brisket, hot snoek pate, Mandarin jelly etc. The attempt to salve the craving by insisting we order The Ostrich whilst dining in Sun Moon Lake recently didn’t, frankly, do the job. For all I know, that could’ve been Wild Mountain Skunk we ate.
So…latkes. Latkes, the deep-fried potatoey goodness that has been the staple of many a good Friday nite at the Gran’s. Latkes, the artery-clogging yumminess that makes the Jew in me shout ‘Nachas’ from the rooftops.
So after procuring the recipe from Grandmama, I ventured off into foreign cuisine territory to do justice to my Jewish heritage. Quickly, I soon realised that making latkes is a very labour-intensive process that no South African Jew in their right mind would actually do themselves. Which is why the maid does it. After grating the third of the 6 required potaoes, my rugged and manly biceps were giving way. But, lo, what’s this I see? A knock at the door! It’s recently-Slovakked Justin, here to help me get latkefied. And so, the giant potaoes went into the hands of the Slovak and the clutches of the tiny grater, which grated gratingly but less effectively than the grater I suddenly found at the top of the cupboard while looking for a Tupperware AFTER we were done. Which just grated on my nerves.
Still, the Slovak made a fine Mavis substitute.
Two things I never realised about latke-making: 1) Potatoes give off obnoxious amounts of water, well it was water-based at least. Still potato juice is noxious, should be immediately turfed and is actually quite a mission to remove from a giant ‘gloomph’ (only way I can explain the pile) of grated potatoings. 2) Deep-frying is not my forte and Slovak had to take over. Which he did with aplomb. Must be his Eastern-European leanings.
The results were not brilliant I’m afraid. In the future, I shall leave the latke-making to the domestic helpers of fine Jewish grandmothers, from Sydney to Sandton. This is not the sort of Jewish Alchemy that amateurs and non-Jews should indulge in. So, memo to all Jewish grandmothers, when next you see me, I expect large servings of latkes, gefilte fish (hold the chrein), perogen and other delicacies, as my poor unfortunate tastebuds are distraught by all the fried turnip cake I’ve eaten in the last month as a Tai-Jew substitute for latkes.
Grating 'taters gratingly
After all that hard grating, I need a drink
Slovak drains potato juice. Yum!
The results of the experimental Jewish cooking
Homesickness can strike one at the most inopportune times, like, say while trying to teach a flock of 3-year-olds the words to ‘London Bridge’ (not that this has ever happened to me, well except for the bit about teaching ‘London Bridge’ to 3-year-olds). And it can strike in the most unlikely of ways. For me, this is manifesting itself in the desire to incorporate ‘Shosholoza’ and Mango Groove music into my morning kindy Exercise Time routines and, what else with me would it be but, food. Glorious food. Think South African food and the obvious tendency is to go for the biltongs and braaivleis [jerky and barbecue for the uncultured]. Personally, when I crave Food From Home it’s usually my gran’s Shabbas food - potato latkes, roast brisket, hot snoek pate, Mandarin jelly etc. The attempt to salve the craving by insisting we order The Ostrich whilst dining in Sun Moon Lake recently didn’t, frankly, do the job. For all I know, that could’ve been Wild Mountain Skunk we ate.
So…latkes. Latkes, the deep-fried potatoey goodness that has been the staple of many a good Friday nite at the Gran’s. Latkes, the artery-clogging yumminess that makes the Jew in me shout ‘Nachas’ from the rooftops.
So after procuring the recipe from Grandmama, I ventured off into foreign cuisine territory to do justice to my Jewish heritage. Quickly, I soon realised that making latkes is a very labour-intensive process that no South African Jew in their right mind would actually do themselves. Which is why the maid does it. After grating the third of the 6 required potaoes, my rugged and manly biceps were giving way. But, lo, what’s this I see? A knock at the door! It’s recently-Slovakked Justin, here to help me get latkefied. And so, the giant potaoes went into the hands of the Slovak and the clutches of the tiny grater, which grated gratingly but less effectively than the grater I suddenly found at the top of the cupboard while looking for a Tupperware AFTER we were done. Which just grated on my nerves.
Still, the Slovak made a fine Mavis substitute.
Two things I never realised about latke-making: 1) Potatoes give off obnoxious amounts of water, well it was water-based at least. Still potato juice is noxious, should be immediately turfed and is actually quite a mission to remove from a giant ‘gloomph’ (only way I can explain the pile) of grated potatoings. 2) Deep-frying is not my forte and Slovak had to take over. Which he did with aplomb. Must be his Eastern-European leanings.
The results were not brilliant I’m afraid. In the future, I shall leave the latke-making to the domestic helpers of fine Jewish grandmothers, from Sydney to Sandton. This is not the sort of Jewish Alchemy that amateurs and non-Jews should indulge in. So, memo to all Jewish grandmothers, when next you see me, I expect large servings of latkes, gefilte fish (hold the chrein), perogen and other delicacies, as my poor unfortunate tastebuds are distraught by all the fried turnip cake I’ve eaten in the last month as a Tai-Jew substitute for latkes.
Grating 'taters gratingly
After all that hard grating, I need a drink
Slovak drains potato juice. Yum!
The results of the experimental Jewish cooking