From time to time throughout life stuff happens for which there is no name. So as creative humans we find it necessary to make up a designation for a new disease or illness which medical science has not yet nor probably will ever recognize.
Thus I present to you a new sickness I contracted recently and from which I still suffer. Readers, may I introduce you to Latke Trauma?
No, I haven’t completely gone off the rails. Okay so I do teeter on the edge at times I admit, but this one is actually quite logical. I’m quite certain the same thing has happened to you as well. Only now we have a name for it instead of “Boy, that Christmas ham was so tough it turned me off ham for a year.” May I present “Ham Trauma?” Or, “boy that awful tasting egg roll caused me to lose my appetite for Chinese food.” I give you “Egg Roll Trauma.”
Sorry, I never met a pizza I didn’t like so I guess that food would be exempt from such trauma. But latkes, sadly, are not.
At Chanukah meals it has long been the custom to allow the mighty latke to take either the lead, or a very important supporting role in a cast of yummy eats during the holiday.
Latkes, so rooted in tradition they call up the flavors of childhood even into old age. When one’s teeth are on their last legs they are still able to gum a latke down. Okay so it might take a bit more sour cream, or applesauce, but it’s well worth the effort.
So now that I’ve established how I feel about latkes you will better understand my illness.
Chanukah has just passed and I, as so many others, looked forward to chowing down on some crispy, perfectly fried latkes smothered in sour cream and or applesauce.
As we all know they always taste better at someone else’s house when you don’t have to fry them yourself and have the lingering smell of oil around for weeks.
So I was thrilled to be invited to a Chanukah party at a friend’s home and anticipating my first Chanukah latke of the year.
The crowd was large and platters of food covered the extensive table. But I was transfixed on only one thing. My eyes scanned the table for the golden discs with the perfect edges.
And then I saw them. Small yes, a bit oddly shaped, but uniform, with a large mound of applesauce in the middle of the platter.
I placed two on my plate and helped myself to the applesauce. Then I looked for the sour cream.
No sour cream. Refusing to panic I walked around the table thinking it must be somewhere else. No sour cream anywhere.
I looked in the kitchen on the island filled with foods and condiments, but none in sight.
My friend walked into the room and I asked her if she had sour cream to go with the latkes.
She wasn’t sure but checked the garage refrigerator and arrived back in the kitchen with a new container. Who serves Latkes without sour cream? I know but what can I say? She’s thin.
So I plopped a portion on my plate and set out to enjoy my first latke of 2024.
I placed my fork on the side of the latke and began pressing to release it from the whole. No movement. I tried again, but the latke was unwilling to part with any size piece at all. Perhaps a knife I thought.
I took a steak knife from the caddy and began sawing my way through the potato laden disc that had now taken on a rubbery consistency. I struggled to achieve a bite and when it finally came loose I dipped it into the applesauce and sour cream with great anticipation.
Now I don’t know about you, but at this age my teeth have cost quite a bit of money to keep in my mouth. Therefore, I am quite protective over each little molar and cuspid still hanging in there with me.
I bit down and the latke fought back.
Surprisingly it had a texture I struggle to find words to describe.
Okay, I’ll try…a gummy bear married a potato and they had a baby and it sat out in the dry air for a month.
It was painful. Oh, not just for my teeth, for my psyche.
It became instantly apparent I would be having no latkes. Quell disappointment!
But don’t cry for me Argentina, I drown my sorrows in jelly donuts, but I digress.
Now, despite the fact I have all the ingredients in my home within reach to create a generous supply of latkes, I have lost my taste for them. The memory of the hockey pucks disguised as latkes haunts me and has removed my craving for them in every way.
So although my waistline is happy about this new development, I can tell you my fat cells haven’t stopped bitching. Well they actually did when I started stuffing the jelly donuts into my mouth.
So although I will never have a vaccine named after me like Jonas Salk, I have managed to name a disease that afflicts us all at times.
“Favorite Food Trauma.” The only cure is the passage of time and for me at least, a jelly donut will always manage the pain.
NormaZager.com 