Hot Potato Salad, According to Girl

Hot potato salad according to Girl: Falling in love with Mike was easy. He looked good—salty sea-colored eyes, tan skin (always tan). Perhaps it was the contrast I liked. I was as white as a china cup, and he was the healthy color of dark sandy beach.
Most of our early relationship was "easy-breezy." We had no kids, no mortgage, no car payments and a only a single credit card that we paid off each month.

It was a very simple, basic life.

We found a good diner, and a few friends. Our parents lived far away, so our life could be centered around "us."

Then, one day, I spilled my guts, "Mike, I am so excited, stop and look at me, I have something important to say."

It was difficult to talk and walk while trying to share that type of conversation as we dodged traffic and oncoming pedestrians.

"I found the most incredible hot German."

He did not understand. His deep blue-green eyes looked into mine with a "What the heck did she just say?" look. His quick pace came to an abrupt halt. The parade following behind us did a quick stop as well, trying to avoid a rear ender, as we stood in the middle of the sidewalk.

Those were the days before the pooper scooper laws, so it was always essential to watch where every foot landed when you walked, otherwise you would end up carrying some bad dog DNA home with you. That meant if you suddenly stopped walking, you could easily have someone run into you.

Mike did not get it. I was a text messenger before it was born. I abbreviated or shortened much of my conversation, talking in shorthand, using acronyms, fragments and a lot of made up words.

There was a new little bistro, situated between my bank and his school. So very convenient for a lunch date. It was German, and it was so very good. My favorite was the hot German potato salad. As I was trying to explain this fabulous side dish to Mike, he stood on the sidewalk, blocking traffic, and he said, "Please explain what you just said."

"Warm. No, hotter than warm, just hot. Sour, vinegary, bacony, mustardish, lots of potatoes and onions with a bit of salt and pepper. It’s called Zum Zum."

Zum Zum was counters, oak stools, butcher blocks, with real butchers carving, cutting, and slapping meat between horseradish and mustard-smothered breads. Chalkboard menus above the counter shouted out to me "HOT GERMAN POTATO SALAD."

It was cheap, fast, and filling. When a white plastic spoonful hit your mouth the hot vinegar brought tears. And when you closed your eyes, the sensation the warm potato salad brought to your tummy made you think you were dining at a restaurant in the Rhineland, with beer steins, hummels, wiener schnitzel and sauerbraten. You could almost see fat little ladies in aprons sloshing frothy beers to thirsty travelers.

So, I introduced Mike to my Zum Zum.