On Latkes

Last night I came home from teaching and made latkes. I've had a 3-lb sack of potatoes sitting on the counter all week, getting hoary around the edges, so I decided to finish them all off in a single burst of culinary efficiency. The chief appeal of latkes (besides their deliciousness, of course) is that making them is such an involved, untidy project. Very pleasant, on a certain kind of evening. It was raining and the wind was howling around, but inside my blue kitchen with the art-deco lamp, everything was cozy and bright.
I launched into the job with a single bowl and a hand-grater, but by the time I was halfway through, pretty much every dish in the kitchen was involved, as I had bowls full of potato shavings ready to be mixed up, cutting boards, milk, flour, sour cream, bits of diced onions clinging to everything, sunflower grease, hot latkes airing on paper towels, raw cakes ready to go on, my hands covered in potato, and the whole kitchen just a spectacular disaster zone. A huge dramatic delicious mess. I felt like a 7-old with a bucket of Playdough.
Then I ate the crispiest, most golden ones with a smatter of salt, and life was good.