When it comes to manners my family has one rule regarding food: Eat whatever is put in front of you. I took this practice to an un-necessary level of politeness. Whether I was at school, a friend’s house or a party I’d shovel down anything resembling food and claim to love it. After all, who likes dealing with a picky eater?
Out of my politeness grew an unabashed willingness to try any food. I’ve fearlessly dug into a wide variety of dishes, from sushi and escargot to the lunch lady’s meat creations and anything in between. I can’t say there’s ever been a food that I’ve been ashamed to put on my plate. But if shame is a painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something ridiculous, then I certainly hung my head in shame as I watched my father attempt to recreate my grandma’s potato salad recipe he so fondly remembered from his youth.
It’s not every Thursday morning that a loud clatter of pots, strainers and blenders snaps me out of my early morning trance. On this particular Thursday I decided to investigate the curious noises escaping the kitchen. As I peered my head into the doorway of the kitchen, I witnessed a man not only willing, but actually happy to be peeling potatoes. The smirk on his face only temporarily distracted me from the mayonnaise-covered potato skins splattered all over the kitchens counter. He claimed this was the best potato salad he’s ever eaten as he juggled hard-boiled eggs and a large container of miracle whip.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter who made the food or where it comes from. Sometimes the best tastes are the unexpected ones. I have no shame in saying that I enjoyed my dad’s potato salad. However I found shame in my friends walking into my house to see my dad covered in a potato salad ingredient nightmare as if he dipped himself in the salad and rolled around on the floor. Not quite the side dish they were expecting.
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