The Homecoming Meal

Over the years, Mom did many wonderful things for me, but one gesture stands out. Whenever Cath and I returned home to Ottawa from wherever we were living, we were welcomed home with unconditional love and my favorite meal ready for our first supper: potato salad and baked ham.

The New York Times food section recently ran an article titled, “Potato Salad Is the Best, Most American Dish We Have.” It’s a great little read, and it started me thinking about my own long-standing love affair with potato salad—and, of course, about Mom. I felt a sudden pang of homesickness thinking of her, and the labor of love she put into welcoming us home.

– The beginning of the tradition –

 After high school, I left for West Point. My first trip home was at Christmas time, Plebe year. When I’d been home a day or two, Mom asked what I wanted for dinner to celebrate my return and getting through the first half of Plebe year.

 I thought about the options: Dad’s steaks and hash browns? Mom’s homemade spaghetti? Fried chicken? Her oyster dressing? (I knew we’d have that for the holidays, so it didn’t count.) In my mind, there was only one answer: her potato salad and a baked ham.

 WhenI told her, Mom gave me a bit of a funny look. I know, I know—it’s not exactly a winter meal. But I loved them both, so she made them.

Coming home after six months as a Plebe, I, of course, inhaled the meal. I’m sure I had seconds and thirds of both, and possibly fourths of her potato salad. And lunch the next day? A ham sandwich and—you guessed it—more potato salad.

 I returned to West Point and the rest of Plebe year. Six months later, it was summer break and I again came home. A couple of days later, Mom asked the same question, except this time we were celebrating completing Plebe year. I gave the same answer. Maybe she asked once more the following Christmas, but then, she quit asking. A tradition was born.

– Greeting at the back door –

 It didn’t matter where I/we returned from—West Point, Georgia, Germany, Oklahoma, Ohio, or D.C. It didn’t matter what time of year—spring, summer, fall, or winter. The meal the night we arrived would be ham and potato salad. Always.

 I recall one year we drove through a raging blizzard to get there. When I opened the back door, the warm, savory smell of a baking ham greeted us. It was wonderful, and I knew Mom already had an extra-large bowl of potato salad waiting in the refrigerator. Honestly, that memory stays with me to this day. 

 I suppose, given we never returned home to live, there is a bit of the tale of the prodigal son to our story. I didn’t demand my inheritance or leave to waste it, as the younger son in the Bible did; I simply followed my own path and was gone for long stretches at times. Lucky for us, like the story of the prodigal son, we were always welcomed home with unconditional love and a celebration.

 In our case, the celebration always included baked ham and potato salad. Mom knew better than anyone how to welcome me home.

 Addendum

• I wrote a somewhat funny blog earlier about potato salad and the always controversial topic of pickles (or not). You can read it here: https://maxnhall.com/2016/06/23/potato-salad-pickles-or-no-pickles/
• Here is a link to the NYT article that started me on this blog: https://cooking.nytimes.com/article/potato-salad-american
•  The story of the prodigal son is in the Bible in the New Testament in Luke, 15:11-32.