The grater slipped twice.
first time on the potato. second time on memory.
I wasn’t even hungry. just tired.
The kind of tired that lives in your wrists and makes you reach for oil like it’s a solution.
Her Highness called them “potato pancakes.” Neat, clean, as if the kitchen ever looked like her photos. But I remembered that photo—page half-ripped, magazine stained with old tea. It’s from that issue. The one I kept after the fire. The one with the pink applesauce that looked too bright to be real.
It was raining. not soft. that rude rain that flattens tulips. Mae was supposed to visit. didn’t.
So I made pancakes. potato ones.
Because I needed something warm and loud. Something that hissed in oil and didn’t ask questions.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version? Clean lines. Lager in the batter. Caviar on the plate like it’s just… there.
You grate the potatoes, save the starch, add onion, eggs, the beer. She says lager. I used whatever was in the fridge. Flour, salt, pepper. Shallow-fried like a memory you’re not ready to face.
She says serve with pink applesauce. Optional. As if I’d skip it.
It reminded me of Nana’s weird rhubarb jelly that lived in a coffee mug for a whole winter.
What I Did Differently
Didn’t peel all the potatoes. Some skin stayed. Some fell in the sink.
Used a local ale. Not on purpose. It was already open.
And I added more salt than she said. Because the last time I didn’t, Mae said it tasted like “soggy hope.”
No caviar. I’m not a liar.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Grated with the old box grater. The one missing a rubber foot.
I kept slipping, so I pressed harder. My hand smelled like metal and starch and… my dad’s hands. Garlic, beer, lemon.
I drained the potatoes. kept the liquid. forgot why. Oh—right. The starch.
Waited ten minutes. Forgot again. Poured it out too fast, saved half the paste. Good enough.
The batter looked like wet hay.
I panicked. added more flour.
Burnt the first one. on purpose, maybe. I needed that smell. That proof something was cooking.
Oil popped. One drop hit the scar near my wrist. The one from the broiled fish in ‘09.
Flattened each pancake with the back of the spoon like I was smoothing down regrets.
Mae’s text came through: “U still mad?”
Didn’t answer. Flipped the last one.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t crowd the pan. They get clingy.
And lager adds something—depth, maybe. Or just bravado.
Let them sit. The crisp settles.
I ate one standing. it collapsed perfectly in half. Like that lemon cake Mae made when she was 9.
What I Did With the Extras
Put three in foil. Forgot them.
One got eaten cold the next morning. Not by me.
The rest?
Fridge ghosts.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But probably not for someone else.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The grater’s still wet in the sink.
The house smells like browned oil and almosts.
Might do it again. if it rains sideways.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like.
FAQs
sure. but it won’t taste like Martha meant it to. and that might be better.
kinda. gives it guts. but water works if you’re emotionally neutral that day.
yeah. they’ll be flatter and sadder, but still edible.
close. but moodier. these have secrets.
don’t. even just once, try the weird pink stuff. it softens the crunch in a good way.
Martha Stewart Potato Pancakes
Description
A panful of crackle and salt. For rainy nights when the silence gets too loud.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Grated the russets into long, tired shreds with the old box grater—some skin stayed. Threw them in cold water because Her Highness insists. Let them sit there while I remembered something sad and half-laughed. Drained them over the sink, catching the liquid like it meant something. It didn’t, until ten minutes later, when I poured it off and scraped the starchy sludge off the bottom. That part? That’s the soul of it, apparently.
- Added the onion next—grated so fine I couldn’t feel my fingers. Eggs in, then the ale. A little too much maybe. Whatever. I stirred like I was trying to remember why I started. Tossed in flour, salt, pepper. The batter looked wrong, so I gave it a minute. Then gave up and started frying anyway.
- Heated oil until it shimmered and hissed. Dropped big spoonfuls in—flattened them with the back like regrets I was smoothing over. Five minutes each side, or whenever they browned enough to feel bold. Transferred them to a paper towel pile and let them rest. Not me, though.
- Served with applesauce that came from a jar but still tasted like someone tried. No caviar. No apology. Just… pancakes. If you can call them that.