I wasn’t planning on latkes.
I was trying to clean the freezer. That’s how it started.
Found the applesauce Mae made last year—pink, lumpy, way too sweet. I almost threw it out. But then I saw the potatoes. Russets, wrinkled, forgotten under the onions. And I remembered Her Highness had a version. With beer. Of course.
So I peeled.
I grated.
And suddenly it was winter again—some old version of it, back when the windows steamed and we still sat at the table like that meant something.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s latkes are mathematical. Four potatoes, one onion, two eggs, a quarter cup of beer. You grate straight into ice water like a chemist, then extract the liquid like a surgeon—starch and all.
She adds the onion raw. Flour, salt, black pepper. Then she tells you to fry them in just the right amount of oil—crisp but not greasy. Warm them in the oven. Serve with sour cream. Applesauce if you’re feeling soft. Caviar if you’re not.
Her version is clean. Sharp edges. Golden circles. A plate that says, “This is tradition, but better.”
What I Did Differently
I used the beer I had—something hoppy and wrong, left by a man I don’t talk to anymore.
Didn’t chill the water. Just ran the tap until it was cold-ish. That was enough.
Skipped the towel. Used paper napkins because the dish rag smelled like last week’s bacon.
And the onion wasn’t white—it was yellow and starting to sprout.
I didn’t drain the oil between batches. Just kept going. Kept feeding the pan until it hissed like it remembered me.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Grated the potatoes until my wrist ached.
Mae used to help with this. Now she just walks by and says, “You always look mad when you make those.” Maybe I do.
The bowl filled with starch-water and memory. I let it settle, poured off the top, added the ghostly paste back in like Her Highness told me. That felt right. Ancient, even.
The batter came together fast. Beer fizzed. Onion burned my eyes. I used my hands.
Oil crackled before I was ready. First pancake stuck. Always does.
Second one held.
Third one sizzled golden.
By the fourth, I remembered how we used to serve these at the Hannukah table I never belonged to—me, the outsider with the wrong last name, bringing the right food.
They always ate mine first.
But I still wasn’t enough.
Anyway.
A Few Things I Learned
- The starch trick is magic. Don’t skip it.
- Beer makes them puff just slightly—like they’re proud.
- Yellow onions work. So do old grudges.
- Frying is louder when you’re alone.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate three standing up, two while crying, and one with a fork over the sink.
Mae had one. Said, “It’s hot.” That was it. But she finished it.
Wrapped the rest in foil. Forgot them on the stove. Found them cold. Still good.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably next December. When it gets dark too early and I start missing things I never really had.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The oil splattered on my wrist.
The applesauce was still sweet.
And for a moment, it was like nothing had gone wrong.
Just salt. Just crisp. Just warm.
FAQs
Whatever’S In The Fridge. Darker = Richer. Lighter = Crispier. Mine Was Flat And Still Worked.
Sure. But You’Ll Miss The Bite. They’Re Not The Same Without It. Like A Hug Without The Squeeze.
You Can, But They’Re Never As Loud On The Second Day. Reheat In A Skillet, Not The Microwave—Unless You Like Sadness.
Technically No. But I Always Do. Texture Thing. Also, Grandma’S Voice In My Head Yelling “They’Ll Taste Dirty.”
That’S Mae’S Fault. She Adds Cranberries. And Insists It “Looks Festive.” It Kinda Does. Tastes Good, Too.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Potato Latkes
Description
Crispy, Briny, And Full Of Memory. Hurt A Little. Healed More.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Grated the potatoes right into cold water. Didn’t measure the cold. Just guessed. Let them sit while I cursed the onion, then strained the whole mess onto napkins. Squeezed hard. Waited. Poured off the water. Kept the starch paste at the bottom like she said.
- Mixed in the eggs, the beer, the flour. Seasoned it like I was seasoning a wound. Let it sit while I heated the oil—enough to scare you, but not enough to drown.
- Dropped the batter in with a spoon. Flattened. Waited. Smelled when it was time to flip. Did six. Burned one. Ate the mistake.
- Served them with applesauce. Cold. Still sweet. Still Mae’s.