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http://www.jewishworldreview.com --
IN MY FREEZER are two Baggies, filled with the stuff of a very fortunate
grandchild who has been thrust into one tricky situation.
To the left, is a plastic bag containing the plump, palm-sized pastry
crusted potatoes of my youth. Far right, a bag bursts with the bite-sized
potato delicacies of my life in a mature relationship.
The battle of the knishes is on, and I'm caught in the thick of it.
Let me just begin by stating for the record that my Grandma Esther is the
best cook in the world. That's a given. I mean, I don't even
know anyone else who makes pie crusts from scratch.
I grew up eating Shabbat dinner with my family most Friday nights at
Grandma Esther's apartment. Everything she makes is somehow richer, moister,
tastier than dishes cooked by, well, my mom, for one. Even when it comes to a
tossed salad, my grandma's greens come sprinkled with this zingy salad
seasoning I've just never tasted anywhere else.
Grandma Esther's potato knishes - those flaky, melt in your mouth,
eat-so-many-you-lose-count knishes - weren't something she cooked just every
old day. They were always an essential part of dinner on Rosh Hashanah, and
other special occasions.
But since I moved out of town, I think I've scored more knishes than in
all those years of special dinners combined.
It's like this: desperate to channel all her excess, 89-year-old energy
when her grandchildren moved away, Grandma Esther became a potato knish
making machine. She cranks out so many knishes, an extra freezer is required
for storage between visits. When we arrive home, she is always prepared with
a bag for each grandchild.
The bags contain exactly one dozen knishes. Every time. Still, a scrap of
paper is taped to each seal, with a grandchild's names scrawled in pencil.
The bags are never to be confused, and no greedy grandchild ever gets more
than an equal share. Favoritism is strictly prohibited in grandparenting.
We've all developed our own special transportation routine to carry this
precious cargo to our current homes. I make my grandma's apartment the final
stop before the airport to ensure as little defrosting time as possible.
(I've considered trading my carry-on backpack for a cooler.)
When I stopped off for a knish loading at the end of a recent trip home,
Grandma Esther told me to share the knishes with my boyfriend.
Had I known a likable beau was bound to rob me of knishes, I just might have
stuck with somebody else.
Naturally, my boyfriend was overwhelmed by Grandma Esther's potato
knishes. But you see, his grandma, Grandma Ethel, also happens to be the best
cook in the world.
In addition to cabbage soup, Grandma Ethel is known for her bite-sized,
meat filled knishes. Her knishes are in such high demand that my boyfriend
often eats them cold, simply to prevent others from getting any.
So enchanted is my boyfriend by the many parallels in our family lives,
that he goes and tells Grandma Ethel he's been eating Grandma Esther's
potato knishes. Grandma Ethel aggressively counters with an offer to send us
some of her own famous meat knishes. But there is a problem.
I don't eat meat. Even meat surrounded by a fluffy knish made by my
boyfriend's enthusiastic grandma. Mind you, I have to be really charming to
make up for being a vegetarian - an endless source of fascination and concern
for my boyfriend's family. (They usually buy 17 pounds of pears before I
arrive for a visit.)
Proof that my charm has paid off, Grandma Ethel made potato knishes for
the first time in her life. Just for me. She leaned in severely, to watch me
taste the very first one. And after I yummmed and ahhhed for a while, she
nonchalantly told me, "It's okay if you like your grandma's knishes better.
I understand."
What can you say to that?
Now I've got two supplies of knishes coming in regularly, not that I'm
complaining. I'm barely ever without, which makes sharing with my boyfriend a
little easier to stomach. I did warn him - as he devoured the last of Grandma
Ethel's current batch and started eyeing Grandma Esther's recent arrivals -
not to get any fancy ideas. Potato knishes will never be served
with brisket in my
Jewish World Review August 9, 2000 / 8 Menachem-Av 5760
Love and knishes
By Allison Kaplan
JWR contributor Allison Kaplan writes from Minneapolis. You may comment by clicking here.
