"Who Made the Potato Salad?!"

Uncle Fred dressed in his fresh white linen pantsuit carries the scent of Issy Miyake and money as he walks across the backyard to talk to the young bouls' about the back-in-the days. Marvin Gaye plays along to a soul train line that spans generations of dance. The sound of kids chasing each other with water balloons and huge drinking cups filled to the brim are followed by someone asking what room the babies are sleeping in. Blood and play cousins set up teams for spades. Siblings take out the UNO cards and plot revenge for last week. Inside are the elders snapping green beans and sharing wise gossip around the kitchen table. Ribs. Chicken. Fried fish. Baked beans. Collard Greens. These are the smells and sounds of the summer. However, there is one quintessential dish that is always accompanied by a controversial question that can knock the world off its axis and turn any harmonious gathering into a James Cameron apocalyptic scene. Whoever dares to ask this question must understand the timing and inflection of the words that will part from their lips. And my cousin, dressed in Adidas from head to toe had no problem being the one to do it:

“Who the hell made this here potato salad?!”

Record scratch. Plate drop. A slight gasp and the clutch of pearls. A deep gulp from a random child in the corner of the yard holding a running water hose. The person bold and hopefully skilled enough to even boil the potatoes for that salad must always be willing to accept the consequences of the task. Usually, it was my mother, beautiful and bold enough, that would volunteer as tribute. She would raise her hand, smile, and shout, “I made it!” Now, here is some brief insight into cookout etiquette. After the person who made the potato salad is revealed listen for the following phrases from the crowd: “Oh ok, bet”... “That’s gonna be good”..."Oh (insert name) made the potato salad?! Let me get my plate"...and lastly, “Put me some on the side for me!” Any of those phrases indicate that the potato salad is hitting. Furthermore, once you see that large metal serving spoon goes inside that aluminum tray it is a clear indicator that if you don't get in line you will miss out on that potato salad. And my mom made the best around town. Hands down, no matter what function, no matter who was there-when Ms. Lynne made the potato salad, that tray was gone after the first round of plates.

Please understand the importance of the potato salad at a cookout. It’s the mac n cheese of the summer season. And if you cannot make it, then take it off the menu until the person that does volunteers to bring it. Do not get people's hopes up because you decided to get in touch with your roots for a change. Leave it to the pros. But anyway, my mom was Neyo for potato salad. She loved to make people smile with her food. Since I was a child, I used to sit at the kitchen table and watch her cut onions ever so carefully like the mobsters cutting that garlic in the prison scene from that movie Goodfellas. She had this smile on her face as she talked about random things she saw on television and folded the celery and bell peppers into the bowl. I would sip on a glass of lemonade and dingle my feet from my chair as she made sure to tell me to add the trinity to the salad (that’s the celery, onions, and bell peppers). I would take a mental note but would never really pay attention because I knew she would always be there to make it. No one dared to even try to cut the potatoes when they were done boiling. She cut it just big enough so that when she stirred in all her ingredients, we would get the perfect bite and the salad would not be mushy. And the mayonnaise. Listen and look at my face; when I tell you one hot summer day I came home with a store brand mayo and not Hellman’s my mother yelled at me like I was not her child, “You know I use Hellman’s Lynette! You know I can’t use this…what is this?! This good for sandwiches maybe- but I can’t use this…girl...my goodnesss...” mind you I had to hear her complain until I walked back out the house, down the steps, and back to the store in the heat-far enough not to hear her anymore. However, it was all worth it in the end. I felt like she was an alchemist and I enjoyed staying the appreciative apprentice as she placed the finished product in the fridge overnight for our gatherings.

Now, here we are. You are reading this, and you are wondering well who made the potato salad at this particular function. Well, if you are a novice in the potato salad-making scene, you don’t simply raise your hand and say hello over here. No, you wait and see how the folk are going to react to the taste test. See, that first bite is always followed by a look down at whatever object you need to focus on to determine whether the seasonings used can make or break the spirit of the cook. And this cousin, who asked the question, decided to take that first bite because he got tired of waiting for an answer. Staring down at his sneakers for focus, some might call him brave for trying. However, if you know family, he can be damn rude. This is the cousin you keep in your back pocket for the “just in cases” in life. And as he chewed, everyone keenly watched to see what ignorant words would possibly flow out of his mouth. I watched him with all anxiousness but my memories, fortunately, snapped me out of that moment and back in front of our refrigerator pulling out the finished bowl of my mom’s potato salad. I recalled how I eagerly awaited to taste it the day after she made it. That first bite was always ethereal. And as my cousin continued to chew, I could still smell the white diamond perfume she wore when we had company. I could taste every distinct flavor. The trinity. The Hellman’s. Her secret seasonings. Eggs. Relish. And a splash of something that I could never put my finger on. Her smile. Her laugh. Most importantly, I could still feel her hugs and her love when I finished the bowl and looked up at her. Finally, my cousin yelled across the yard and I found myself staring directly into his eyes,

“Yo! You made this, didn’t you…it tastes just like your momma’s….”

With a smile, he put more onto his plate. Relief swept across the yard. Even that kid in the corner with the water hose could finally commence wetting the side of the house. The world was put back into proper balance. Looking at everyone get in line to get their food, I sat proudly because that question, as scary as it may be, was now something I looked forward to answering at every gathering.

This is my summertime dish…it marks the beginning of cookouts and inflatable pools on concrete. It’s the perfect partner to a side of collard greens. And for me…it is the dish that keeps my mother’s memory alive.