Salad Cream — The Dressing That Makes a Johansson Summer Potato Salad

The lake was doing what the lake does this week: changing color hourly, sometimes by the minute, the way grief does. Iron gray at dawn. Steel blue by ten. Almost green by noon when the sun broke through. Pewter again by four. Black by six. I walked the lakefront with Sven on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Saturday, and the lake was different every time, and the lake was the same every time, and both things are how it works. Jakob (Anna's middle, recently graduated) has a job. He hates the job. He is figuring it out. He called me Tuesday for advice. I told him: that is what your twenties are for. The first job is supposed to be unsatisfying. The first job teaches you what you do not want. He said, "Grandma, that is not super helpful." I said, "It is the truth. Helpful is not always the same as comforting." He laughed. He hung up. He kept the job for now. He will figure it out. Lena (Anna's youngest, college freshman) is in college now. She calls me sometimes. The calls are about boys, mostly. I listen. I do not give advice. I am eighteen-year-old's grandmother. My credibility on boys is suspect at best. I tell her the kinds of things a grandmother is supposed to tell her: be careful, be brave, trust your gut, do not date the one who reminds you of someone you do not like. She thinks I am wise. I am, in fact, just old. The two get confused sometimes in the right direction. I cooked Swedish potato salad this week. Boiled potatoes, dill, chives, mayonnaise, sour cream, vinegar, salt. Served cold. The Memorial Day standard. Every potluck of every Johansson summer. Thursday at Damiano. I brought a tray of pepparkakor — the second batch from the Christmas freezer, brought back to crispness in a low oven. They were eaten in fifteen minutes. The cookies are not the soup. The cookies are the extra. The extra is the message: you are worth the effort of cookies. Most of the world does not give the people who come to Damiano the message that they are worth the effort of cookies. The cookies are doing political work. I dreamed about Paul last night. The dream was specific: we were at the lake, in the canoe, fishing for trout. He was teaching me the right way to cast (he was always trying to teach me; I never quite got the rhythm; I caught fish anyway, by accident, with embarrassing regularity). In the dream he was patient and present and entirely himself. I woke up at 4 AM. I made coffee. I sat in the kitchen. The dream was a visit. I have learned to receive the visits without reaching for them. They come when they come. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. The seasons in Duluth are unsubtle. The winter is long and white and dark. The spring is reluctant. The summer is glorious and brief. The fall is brilliant and quick. The unsubtlety is a kind of honesty. The seasons do not pretend to be other than what they are. They give you what they give you. They take what they take. The kitchen, in response, does what it does — soup in winter, salads in summer, pies in fall, bread always. It is enough.

The Swedish potato salad I made this week — boiled potatoes, dill, chives, a proper cold serving — starts and ends with the dressing, and the dressing is always this one: a homemade salad cream, sharp with vinegar, rich with sour cream and a little mayonnaise, the kind that coats the potatoes without drowning them. Every Johansson potluck of every summer I can remember has had a bowl of this on the table. Paul always went back for seconds. I still make enough for seconds, out of habit, out of something more than habit. The recipe is below, exactly as it has always been.

Salad Cream

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes (plus 30 minutes chilling) | Servings: 12 (about 1 1/2 cups)

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup mayonnaise
• 1/2 cup sour cream
• 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon fine salt, plus more to taste
• 1/4 teaspoon white pepper
• 1 tablespoon cold water, to thin if needed
• 2 tablespoons fresh dill, finely chopped (optional, for Swedish potato salad application)
• 1 tablespoon fresh chives, finely sliced (optional, for Swedish potato salad application)

Instructions

1. Combine the base. In a medium bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise and sour cream until smooth and fully incorporated.
2. Add the acid and seasoning. Whisk in the white wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, sugar, salt, and white pepper. Taste and adjust — the dressing should be tangy and bright with a mild sweetness to balance the acid.
3. Adjust consistency. If the dressing feels too thick to coat a salad evenly, whisk in cold water one teaspoon at a time until it reaches a pourable but still creamy consistency.
4. Add herbs (optional). If using for Swedish potato salad, fold in the fresh dill and chives now so the flavors have time to develop.
5. Chill before serving. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. The dressing thickens slightly as it chills and the flavors meld. It keeps well in a sealed jar in the refrigerator for up to one week.
6. Dress and serve. Toss with warm or room-temperature boiled potatoes (waxy varieties hold best) for a classic Swedish potato salad, or use as a dressing for any green or grain salad. Serve cold.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 95 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 175mg