You Say Latkes, I Say Blini

Everyone — at least everyone growing up in the US during a certain era — has memories of pancakes. Mine are gnarled.

On the one hand, eating pancakes in the South of my youth was a special treat, mostly reserved for Sundays and often eaten outside the home, for reasons that will soon be clear. I loved these special breakfasts, typically a stack of three light and fluffy thjngs, topped with butter and real maple syrup. Any greasy spoon in Savannah worth its name could do these up proud. My favorite back then was a local joint called “Our House,” the inspiration behind the name Etzlenu. But I digress.

Then, on the other hand, were the potato pancakes or latkes my mom made at home once a year as part of traditional Chanukah fare. These things were downright terrible: flat, where the ones I loved were airy and voluminous, coarsely grated, and horrors or horrors, grease monsters. They were even a bit green-tinged, just to add insult to injury. My mom, as I have mentioned in other pieces, was the type of inspiring cook who inspired you by making you want to correct her culinary sins. These potato blini fall slap dab into this category.

This dish is the latkes I should have had as a kid, albeit a bit on the fussy side to make: pureeing the potatoes, ricing and measuring carefully, mixing in eggs and egg yok and creme fraiche, measuring them out carefully, getting the large frying pan to the just right temperature. Thomas Wolfe a long time ago wrote that “You Can’t Go Home Again.” Me? I’m not so sure.