Next time I announce that I’m going to make potato pancakes, please remind me of the time, the effort, the sweat and the physical discomfort that comes with it.
Maybe I keep making them because, deep in my heart, I know the end product is so worth it.
But, still – just as the memory of child birth invariably fades as soon as I see the sweet little being the pain produced, I invariably forget the sweat equity involved in making potato pancakes as soon as I hear the batter sizzle in my frying pan, see the round, slightly crisp delights take shape and hear the “yums” coming from my family.
The potato pancakes proved to be the perfect side dish for the Hungarian Goulash I served on Monday night (and again as leftovers last night).
And just as kids grow up and cause us all sorts of frustration and heart ache, making potato pancakes leaves me with cramped, scraped and sore hands.
Let me back up a bit. I do not own a food processor.
I know, I know. But I’ve managed all of the years to get by using my Mom’s old hand-held grater. I’ve tried using more updated versions along the way, just to give hers a rest, but they couldn’t take the pressure and snapped in half like an uncooked strand of spaghetti.
Sure, I could barely type yesterday but (sniff), the little darlings were so worth it.