"It's the first of the season," my mom says as I pull the tall, round, plastic container from her refrigerator. From this vantage point, it doesn't look all that different from most deli-counter potato salads: green, red and orange flecks randomly scattered throughout a thick, lumpy yellow-tinted, white-based mix. But, this isn't regular deli-counter potato salad. It didn't get scooped from a five-gallon GFS bucket into a trough. It doesn't taste even a little bit like plastic. And it wasn't made with Miracle Whip or yellow mustard—at least, I don't think so. But, I'll get to that in a minute.
This is what we in my family call Mrs. Mueller's potato salad. Available only at Mueller's Market on Kercehval Ave in Grosse Pointe Park, from sometime in late April or early May, until just after Labor Day, the potato salad seems to be a local way of marking the glory of summer. It's potato salad that I have had a relationship with since I was a kid, potato salad that was, back then, actually made by Mrs. Mueller herself. Now, her sons continue the tradition of making it; my mom continues her tradition of buying it.
Two things interest me now as I write about this potato salad. First, I have this recipe for Mrs. Mueller's potato salad, one that I will share with you today. But, this isn't her recipe. It's merely my version of what it is I believe she has done, what it is I taste when I eat her potato salad. Strangely enough, I never really ate any of it until I was in college. It committed one of my childhood culinary cardinal sins: it "touched." In other words, the ingredients weren't even slightly distinguishable—I couldn't pick out whatever it was that I didn't like ( usually onions ) . The confluence of components and flavors made dissection impossible, so I avoided it and stuck with fruit salad.
Secondly, this recipe is an homage to a person I didn't really even know, a woman I didn't even particularly like. I distinctly remember going to Mueller's with my mom, watching her scoop huge magnificently heavy spoonfuls of the stuff into what were then white paper containers—the Chinese carry-out kind. Mrs. Mueller was wizened, short, knobby and, in my grade school opinion, a little bit mean. She was terse and laconic with anyone under thirty, and she definitely wasn't interested in kids who apparently were all just waiting to mess up her store.
On occasion, I would venture into Mueller's with friends to buy Suzy Q's and Faygo, but I didn't like the sensation of being profiled by her, of being a potential thief because I rode a bike. I was always grateful when I was with my mom so that I could openly stare at her stretching to reach the scale sitting on the meat case, high above her head and mine. See, I would think, we're not really that different after all.
But, eventually I grew up, and I realized that kids in a store can be a pain in the butt. I realized that her lack of good humor was probably rehearsed. I realized that I stared at her not only because she was a tiny bit scary, but because I was in awe. I marveled at the way she muscled large pieces of meat, controlled rowdy teenagers, wielded power with a less than five foot tall frame. She was old ( or so I thought at the time ) but really strong. She was a strong old woman and I had never seen one before; a marvel for a young female body to behold.
Eventually, I tried that potato salad. I tried it and liked it. And then, eventually, I had to try and make it. I tasted it over and over to try and figure it out. The bits of vegetables and potatoes are cut small. You can see scallion, not onion; radish, celery and carrot I am sure. Hers includes bits of green pepper, but I don't like it so I leave it out. The spicy taste which builds on your tongue has the character of white, not black, pepper. Hard-boiled egg, not mustard provides the yellow hue, and I am convinced that there is sour cream in addition to mayonnaise holding it all together.
There are two secrets, I think. One is about process, the other an ingredient. As for process, it's key to mix the potato salad while the potatoes are still hot—it allows the flavors to fuse and the mixture to achieve a creamy rich texture—not just mayo-covered lumps in a bowl. As for the secret ingredient, I've decided it is bacon grease, though I can't at all be sure. And it's as easy to leave out as include, but it does marvelous work if you're not restricted by vegetarian concerns.
As I said, this recipe isn't Mrs. Mueller's. As far as I know, that recipe is still a trade secret. But, I make this potato salad and give her credit. This is her potato salad because she's the inspiration. I figure it's an easy way to create a little good karma, my own homage to the archetypal bad-ass old person I hope one day to become.
Mrs. Mueller's potato salad
This makes enough for a party of 20; and you can half or double the recipe without a problem
Ingredients
5 lbs. of russet potatoes—peeled, quartered and boiled
2-3 stalks of celery finely chopped
4-5 radishes grated
2-3 carrots grated
4-5 scallions finely chopped
1 heaping cup of mayo
1 heaping cup of sour cream
2 tsp white pepper
2 tsp sea salt
Directions
1. If you've got frozen bacon grease ( this is what we used to do with it! ) remove from the freezer first. If you're not going to use any—and it isn't required—skip this step.
2. Make, chop and set aside six hard boiled eggs.
3. Peel, quarter and boil the potatoes in a large pot.
4. Chop all vegetables while the potatoes boil.
5. Drain potatoes when a fork easily pierces the potatoes.
6. Cut potatoes while they are still hot.
7. If using the bacon grease, scrape out about 2 TBS and place on top of the hot potatoes.
8. Sprinkle the salt and pepper directly onto the potatoes.
9. Place veggies in a HUGE pot or bowl; place mayo and sour cream on top of veggies; place eggs on top of the sour cream and mayo.
10. When bacon grease is melted, pour still hot potatoes on top of all the other ingredients—stir well.
11. Let cool a bit then place into the fridge for a few hours to completely chill.
Serve with grilled food of any sort, although burgers or BBQ seem excellent companions.
