Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
“There is something missing in these potato pancakes. Potatoes, flour, onion, salt …” aloud he enumerated the ingredients. “I must have forgotten something.” “Nothing is missing,” I reassured the host. He liked indulging himself with cuisine, but most of all entertaining his friends to his home-made dishes. “Being retired, when you can no longer dash ahead you tend to look into the past. Our post-war generation still remembers hunger. Did my mother add whole eggs or just yolks?” he looked at his potato pancake which did not seem to diminish. “Even though all the products in them are the best quality …” he waved his fork, disconsolate, kept putting it away on the table and picking it up again. “Actually, mother, you did not spoil us with food,” he spoke to a framed photograph of his mother and father sitting at a table and smiling away from beyond. “If you think about it, at home we had either potatoes or potato pancakes, alternating with dumplings or noodles, and not much else. Potato pancakes melted away in my mouth to full satisfaction, and words wished to remain silent.
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