Almost 40 years ago, my Jewish roommate wanted to make latkes on the first night of the festival of lights. He took my iron griddle, placed it atop an electric eye turned up high, and when the excessive heat had leached the seasoning out of it, attempted to cook potato pancakes on it. Up until that moment, the guy’s attempts at cooking consisted of packaged ramen noodles in a sauce pot of water. No, the latkes were not a success.
I still have the iron griddle (though it cannot be fully rehabilitated), and we’re still friends. He lives just west of Nashville.