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It was invented in Saratoga Springs—who knew? I thought it was bequeathed to the world by the English, one more example of their lousy cuisine, on a par with fish'n chips served up in a cone of day-old newspaper, or their mystery-meat pies. But it turns out potato chips are truly American. A cranky customer at a Saratoga eatery in the mid 1800s kept sending back his steak fries, claiming they were still raw inside. The chef, one George Crum, a somewhat touchy fellow, cooked up a dish of very thinly cut potatoes fried to a crisp, as if to say: “You wann'em cooked, you got'em.”
To everyone's amazement, they were a hit. Every joint in Saratoga started serving Saratoga chips—that's what they called them at first.
Simon's good for three or four, if there's absolutely nothing else to eat. I've tried to like them all my life. I've wanted to fit in and embrace various--if not all--things American. I love food, and all things that have to do with food. But Simon echoed how I felt about potato chips when I suggested we make some from scratch: “Why?”
* * *
My mother is a wonderful cook. As a child, I wondered if the girls who wanted to come over after school, came to hang out with me, or to eat my mother's goulash and her chocolate pudding.
In my parents' home, we ate at a set table, all together, for every meal. In Peru, and later in Brazil, the local German school started early and was over by one-fifteen. However bored I was while diagramming German sentences, there was always lunch to look forward to; however endless my homework, dinner was only a few hours away. And once at the table, we sat there for maybe an hour, or more, eating and chatting, nibbling on more dessert, while my parents drank coffee.
I started cooking early--I was eleven--making pancakes for girlfriends as an afternoon snack, served with butter and jam. By the time I went to college, I could roast a chicken and a leg of lamb. In my twenties and thirties, I had a weakness for men whose life centered around a kitchen and shared meals. Unemployed, decades older, burdened by a history of suicide attempts, married, or residing two continents way—if he cooked, I was interested. On the other hand, if he had nothing in his fridge, ate off paper plates, and had no dining room, that affair went nowhere, no matter that he was a doctor, drove a Benz, and was a hit with my parents. On our first date, George, all professorial shabby tweed and scuffed loafers, made a three course Chinese meal from scratch and served it with cold Tsingtao.
What I find hardest about living in America is that food so often occupies a trivial place in people's lives. Little effort is put into procuring, preparing, presenting, sharing, enjoying every meal of every day. The press has been full about all the reasons why—no need to repeat.
Still, I don't get it. I think of the dining room table as the center of my marriage and our family life. All special events turn around food. So-and-so is coming—what shall we make? Birthdays, holidays, weekends, anniversaries—salmon? asparagus? Prosecco? Most of my dearest friends have lives that turn around meals. Our affection for each other is expressed with food, the sharing of a few hours over bread and wine. Other ways of living seem sad to me. Something crucial--for me--is lacking. And I find myself pushing that sadness away, not letting people very close who do not share my gastronomic obsessions. Friendships without good food are like love affairs without sex—they end quicker than most, and if they last, they lack the same intensity, generosity, delight, loyalty, joy. All this to say, I feel like a very odd duck in this country, and my life in America has meant I have only a few friends.
But I began with the potato chip. Early in my first marriage, we went to spend Christmas with his parents. They were interesting and talented people, living in Maine in a home that had once been a tavern in the 1800s. From a drafty hallway, I called my parents in sunny Brazil to wish them a happy holiday. I had intended to keep it together and very brief—international calls were pricey back then. But hearing their voices, I began to cry. I complained about the food. No one had baked anything special; we had meat-loaf made with onion soup mix, I think, and English muffins. And in between sobs: “And, and, Mother, guess what they served as an appetizer on Christmas Eve?” I was so upset, I could barely get the words out: “Potato chips!”
To be fair, my first husband was deeply disturbed by my own parents upon first meeting them. “All they talk about is food!” he sputtered. “At the end of breakfast, they talk about lunch—who will buy it, cook it, serve it. At the end of lunch, they go on about dinner. For God's sake, we're people of the 20th century—not cannibals!”
I have so little control over most aspects of my life—jobs, friends, husbands, countries, children, youth, parents, health, wealth, even happiness—everything comes and goes. But meals—those I can control. I can set a table and around it gather the people I love. I can make something ever so simple--a casserole, a salad, a berry crisp. I can invite everyone to sit and eat. Whatever losses I've suffered, I forget. All that truly matters is right in front of me.
I started cooking early--I was eleven--making pancakes for girlfriends as an afternoon snack, served with butter and jam. By the time I went to college, I could roast a chicken and a leg of lamb. In my twenties and thirties, I had a weakness for men whose life centered around a kitchen and shared meals. Unemployed, decades older, burdened by a history of suicide attempts, married, or residing two continents way—if he cooked, I was interested. On the other hand, if he had nothing in his fridge, ate off paper plates, and had no dining room, that affair went nowhere, no matter that he was a doctor, drove a Benz, and was a hit with my parents. On our first date, George, all professorial shabby tweed and scuffed loafers, made a three course Chinese meal from scratch and served it with cold Tsingtao.
What I find hardest about living in America is that food so often occupies a trivial place in people's lives. Little effort is put into procuring, preparing, presenting, sharing, enjoying every meal of every day. The press has been full about all the reasons why—no need to repeat.
Still, I don't get it. I think of the dining room table as the center of my marriage and our family life. All special events turn around food. So-and-so is coming—what shall we make? Birthdays, holidays, weekends, anniversaries—salmon? asparagus? Prosecco? Most of my dearest friends have lives that turn around meals. Our affection for each other is expressed with food, the sharing of a few hours over bread and wine. Other ways of living seem sad to me. Something crucial--for me--is lacking. And I find myself pushing that sadness away, not letting people very close who do not share my gastronomic obsessions. Friendships without good food are like love affairs without sex—they end quicker than most, and if they last, they lack the same intensity, generosity, delight, loyalty, joy. All this to say, I feel like a very odd duck in this country, and my life in America has meant I have only a few friends.
But I began with the potato chip. Early in my first marriage, we went to spend Christmas with his parents. They were interesting and talented people, living in Maine in a home that had once been a tavern in the 1800s. From a drafty hallway, I called my parents in sunny Brazil to wish them a happy holiday. I had intended to keep it together and very brief—international calls were pricey back then. But hearing their voices, I began to cry. I complained about the food. No one had baked anything special; we had meat-loaf made with onion soup mix, I think, and English muffins. And in between sobs: “And, and, Mother, guess what they served as an appetizer on Christmas Eve?” I was so upset, I could barely get the words out: “Potato chips!”
To be fair, my first husband was deeply disturbed by my own parents upon first meeting them. “All they talk about is food!” he sputtered. “At the end of breakfast, they talk about lunch—who will buy it, cook it, serve it. At the end of lunch, they go on about dinner. For God's sake, we're people of the 20th century—not cannibals!”
I have so little control over most aspects of my life—jobs, friends, husbands, countries, children, youth, parents, health, wealth, even happiness—everything comes and goes. But meals—those I can control. I can set a table and around it gather the people I love. I can make something ever so simple--a casserole, a salad, a berry crisp. I can invite everyone to sit and eat. Whatever losses I've suffered, I forget. All that truly matters is right in front of me.
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