Potato Meets Pancake

I woke up this morning to the first real snow stuck to the ground, and my heart filled with anticipation (unlike so many Chicagoans who start to grumbling this time of year, bitterly tossing angry qualifications that if not for the wonderful Chicago summers, they’d have long fled this seasonally frigid northern coop…). When the mercury dips, my body and mind undergo a transformation. This is the time of hockey, skiing, snowballs and lengthy, invigorating nighttime walks with my trusted hearty Canadian black Lab (who likewise celebrates our northerly latitude with eager dives and rolls into snow drifts and fields as opportunities merit).

And I have further reason to celebrate: This is also the time of potato pancakes. I herald the beginning of potato pancake season with my annual visit during the first week of December to Christkindlmarket Chicago, a quintessentially German food, drink, arts and crafts fair that descends on Daley Plaza in Chicago before Christmas every year. In addition to hunting for cool German ornaments and chocolates, the wife and I always dig right away into the potato pancakes, with applesauce, and cockle-warming glühwein (unlike the glühwein, which appears the same regardless of vendor—they must buy it by the tanker—each purveyor of potato pancakes makes them just a bit differently). We often extend the sampling—as we did last Saturday—by popping over to the Berghoff for some of theirs, along with other old country delicacies.

Many variations on the deceptively simple potato pancake exist. As was brought up in discussion with a couple of Swedish friends of mine last week, the Swedish potato pancake (raggmunk) has a few notable differences compared to Norwegian (lefse)—and German (kartoffelpuffer), I was quick to note—primarily via garnish, and sometimes in the approach to processing the potatoes. In Sweden, they’re like thicker cousins to Swedish pancakes—and both get a side of tart-sweet lingonberries. Norwegian lefse can sometimes resemble a tortilla, and uses whipped potatoes vs. grated. German versions are always grated, and the best are thin with super-crispy edges. Jewish latkes quite often closely resemble German potato pancakes, but are sometimes dusted with sugar and see more accepting of diversification than other cultures’ iterations (perhaps since they were likely originally made with cheese instead of potatoes, since Old World Jews didn’t have access to New World potatoes until around the 18^th century when potatoes made their way to Europe).

Regardless of their progeny, right now the time is right for digging into potato pancakes of various stripes—just right for these increasingly dark, interminable nights, perhaps beside an equally dark, strong abbey ale to fend off that winter wind’s icy bite.