Many Germans believe Frederick the Great brought potatoes to the country. It's not true
Despite potatoes having arrived in Europe from South America in the 16th century, the people of Prussia, a region that would later form part of a united Germany, were initially reluctant to consume the new crop. Faced with this resistance, King Frederick II devised an ingenious plan.
He strategically positioned royal guards and soldiers around his palace garden, where the potatoes were cultivated. This created the deliberate illusion that the spuds were a rare and highly prized commodity, reserved exclusively for the royal family and their aristocratic circle. However, each night, the guards would discreetly withdraw from their posts, providing an irresistible opportunity for enterprising locals to sneak in and "steal" the supposedly valuable tubers, thereby spreading their consumption across the land.
Thus began Germany's love affair with the humble Kartoffel and Frederick's rebranding as Der Kartoffelkönig, the potato king.
Except it's all fake. Bogus. Phony. Falsch! as the Germans would say.
And debunking it is a royal pain for Jürgen Luh, historian of the Prussian Palaces and Gardens Foundation, even when history has receipts. Archives of royal menus show the king instead had a penchant for Italian food and French wine.
'He never ate it,' Luh said. 'Any potato. Not boiled, not fried.'
The unexciting truth is that the potato has been cultivated in Germany's Bavarian region since 1647, Luh said. Frederick's great-grandfather, Elector Frederick William, introduced it to the Brandenburg area of Prussia in the 1650s, but only because he liked the aesthetics of the plant's leafy greens.
By the time Frederick the Great took the throne in 1740, the potato was grown in gardens throughout Prussia but not on a large scale. The king did actually issue royal decrees promoting the farming and production of potatoes, but his people ignored them. Potatoes did not become widespread in Prussia, in central and eastern Europe, until after the Napoleonic wars ended in 1815, after Frederick II's death in 1786.
The guarded garden story, Luh said, is nonsense. And Frederick was more of a wannabe potato king than an actual one.
But the fable has deep roots, and the myth makes money.
To this day, visitors to Frederick's summer home of Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam, outside Berlin, leave raw potatoes and paper crowns on the king's grave. The palace's gift shops sell potato merchandise, from postcards and children's books to a 35-euro ($40) apron proclaiming the wearer as a Kartoffelkönig.
Luh used to correct tour guides and visitors to the palace, but he's largely given up. Besides, he said, at least it means people are coming to Sanssouci and experiencing its rich history.
'The fact is that the legend has beaten the truth and the legend is just too beautiful,' he added.
Whatever its roots, the potato is undeniably part of the German cultural identity. At Biohof Schöneiche, an organic farm outside Berlin, workers will harvest roughly 2,500 metric tons (5.5 million pounds) of potatoes come the annual September harvest.
'In most parts of the world, potatoes are considered a vegetable. In Germany it's a staple food,' general manager Axel Boehme said. ' People cannot imagine to have a meal without potatoes.'
Regional recipes, passed down from every Oma (grandmother) to each new generation, debate the merits of a vinegar- or mayo-based Kartoffelsalat. From boiled (Salzkartoffeln) or pan-fried (Bratkartoffeln) to dumplings and pancakes (Kartoffelklösse and Kartoffelpuffer), the versatile vegetable is intertwined with the country's emotional heritage.
For Anke Schoenfelder, project manager for German potato marking company Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, her favorite tuber tradition is rooted in making Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) for family gatherings.
'Taste is memory, right? And when this is related to your family, this is even more part of your identity,' she said.
Plus, Schoenfelder added, the potato can be used as a beauty product — the juice can be good for your skin, she says — or a household cleaner, for stubborn stains on the bottom of your oven.
For now, Der Kartoffelkönig's legend lives on. As Luh was speaking to The Associated Press in front of the king's grave, two tourists placed their offerings of potatoes on the tomb. One even took a selfie as she did so.
'I always think I should go here in the evening when I have no potatoes at home,' the historian joked. 'I could take them away and have a good meal afterwards.'
Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake)
From Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, a German potato marking company. In true European fashion, the measurements provided refer to weight, not volume. You will need a 10-cup Bundt pan.
Time: 90 minutes
Serves: 12
Ingredients
9 oz (250g) high-starch potatoes (such as Russets and Maris Pipers)
9 oz (250g) carrots
1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) carrot juice
1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) sunflower oil
4 eggs (medium-size, room temperature)
7 oz (200g) sugar
1 packet vanilla sugar
4.5 oz (125g) almonds, ground
4.5 oz (125g) flour
melted butter to grease the mold
2 tablespoons breadcrumbs
Directions
Wash the potatoes and boil them in salted water for about 20 to 25 minutes, until tender. Let them cool slightly, peel them, and then press them through a potato ricer into a bowl.
Wash and peel the carrots and grate them finely with the potatoes, using a vegetable grater or a mandolin.
Generously grease the Bundt pan with oil or butter. Coat the pan with some breadcrumbs.
Preheat oven to 392°F (200°C) on the fan setting.
Add carrot juice, sunflower oil, eggs, vanilla sugar, sugar, flour, baking powder and ground almonds to the mashed potatoes and grated carrots and mix with a hand mixer for about four minutes until a dough forms.
Pour the potato-carrot cake batter into the prepared Bundt pan.
Place the pan in the oven and bake for about 50 minutes until cooked through (if necessary, cover the pan with aluminum foil after half an hour to prevent the cake from burning).
Let the cake cool completely (you can also do this on a balcony or terrace) before decorating it with icing. This is important, because otherwise the icing will seep into the cake.
In a bowl, combine the powdered sugar and a little lemon juice until thickened. Pour the icing over the cooled cake and decorate with your preferred toppings like chocolate chips, for example. Let it rest a bit to allow the icing to set.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Independent
a day ago
- The Independent
Many Germans believe Frederick the Great brought potatoes to the country. It's not true
Generations of Germans credit Frederick the Great with introducing the beloved potato to the nation, but the popular legend reveals a surprising twist: the 18th-century Prussian monarch had to resort to cunning to convince his subjects to embrace the tuber. Despite potatoes having arrived in Europe from South America in the 16th century, the people of Prussia, a region that would later form part of a united Germany, were initially reluctant to consume the new crop. Faced with this resistance, King Frederick II devised an ingenious plan. He strategically positioned royal guards and soldiers around his palace garden, where the potatoes were cultivated. This created the deliberate illusion that the spuds were a rare and highly prized commodity, reserved exclusively for the royal family and their aristocratic circle. However, each night, the guards would discreetly withdraw from their posts, providing an irresistible opportunity for enterprising locals to sneak in and "steal" the supposedly valuable tubers, thereby spreading their consumption across the land. Thus began Germany's love affair with the humble Kartoffel and Frederick's rebranding as Der Kartoffelkönig, the potato king. Except it's all fake. Bogus. Phony. Falsch! as the Germans would say. And debunking it is a royal pain for Jürgen Luh, historian of the Prussian Palaces and Gardens Foundation, even when history has receipts. Archives of royal menus show the king instead had a penchant for Italian food and French wine. 'He never ate it,' Luh said. 'Any potato. Not boiled, not fried.' The unexciting truth is that the potato has been cultivated in Germany's Bavarian region since 1647, Luh said. Frederick's great-grandfather, Elector Frederick William, introduced it to the Brandenburg area of Prussia in the 1650s, but only because he liked the aesthetics of the plant's leafy greens. By the time Frederick the Great took the throne in 1740, the potato was grown in gardens throughout Prussia but not on a large scale. The king did actually issue royal decrees promoting the farming and production of potatoes, but his people ignored them. Potatoes did not become widespread in Prussia, in central and eastern Europe, until after the Napoleonic wars ended in 1815, after Frederick II's death in 1786. The guarded garden story, Luh said, is nonsense. And Frederick was more of a wannabe potato king than an actual one. But the fable has deep roots, and the myth makes money. To this day, visitors to Frederick's summer home of Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam, outside Berlin, leave raw potatoes and paper crowns on the king's grave. The palace's gift shops sell potato merchandise, from postcards and children's books to a 35-euro ($40) apron proclaiming the wearer as a Kartoffelkönig. Luh used to correct tour guides and visitors to the palace, but he's largely given up. Besides, he said, at least it means people are coming to Sanssouci and experiencing its rich history. 'The fact is that the legend has beaten the truth and the legend is just too beautiful,' he added. Whatever its roots, the potato is undeniably part of the German cultural identity. At Biohof Schöneiche, an organic farm outside Berlin, workers will harvest roughly 2,500 metric tons (5.5 million pounds) of potatoes come the annual September harvest. 'In most parts of the world, potatoes are considered a vegetable. In Germany it's a staple food,' general manager Axel Boehme said. ' People cannot imagine to have a meal without potatoes.' Regional recipes, passed down from every Oma (grandmother) to each new generation, debate the merits of a vinegar- or mayo-based Kartoffelsalat. From boiled (Salzkartoffeln) or pan-fried (Bratkartoffeln) to dumplings and pancakes (Kartoffelklösse and Kartoffelpuffer), the versatile vegetable is intertwined with the country's emotional heritage. For Anke Schoenfelder, project manager for German potato marking company Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, her favorite tuber tradition is rooted in making Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) for family gatherings. 'Taste is memory, right? And when this is related to your family, this is even more part of your identity,' she said. Plus, Schoenfelder added, the potato can be used as a beauty product — the juice can be good for your skin, she says — or a household cleaner, for stubborn stains on the bottom of your oven. For now, Der Kartoffelkönig's legend lives on. As Luh was speaking to The Associated Press in front of the king's grave, two tourists placed their offerings of potatoes on the tomb. One even took a selfie as she did so. 'I always think I should go here in the evening when I have no potatoes at home,' the historian joked. 'I could take them away and have a good meal afterwards.' Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) From Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, a German potato marking company. In true European fashion, the measurements provided refer to weight, not volume. You will need a 10-cup Bundt pan. Time: 90 minutes Serves: 12 Ingredients 9 oz (250g) high-starch potatoes (such as Russets and Maris Pipers) 9 oz (250g) carrots 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) carrot juice 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) sunflower oil 4 eggs (medium-size, room temperature) 7 oz (200g) sugar 1 packet vanilla sugar 4.5 oz (125g) almonds, ground 4.5 oz (125g) flour melted butter to grease the mold 2 tablespoons breadcrumbs Directions Wash the potatoes and boil them in salted water for about 20 to 25 minutes, until tender. Let them cool slightly, peel them, and then press them through a potato ricer into a bowl. Wash and peel the carrots and grate them finely with the potatoes, using a vegetable grater or a mandolin. Generously grease the Bundt pan with oil or butter. Coat the pan with some breadcrumbs. Preheat oven to 392°F (200°C) on the fan setting. Add carrot juice, sunflower oil, eggs, vanilla sugar, sugar, flour, baking powder and ground almonds to the mashed potatoes and grated carrots and mix with a hand mixer for about four minutes until a dough forms. Pour the potato-carrot cake batter into the prepared Bundt pan. Place the pan in the oven and bake for about 50 minutes until cooked through (if necessary, cover the pan with aluminum foil after half an hour to prevent the cake from burning). Let the cake cool completely (you can also do this on a balcony or terrace) before decorating it with icing. This is important, because otherwise the icing will seep into the cake. In a bowl, combine the powdered sugar and a little lemon juice until thickened. Pour the icing over the cooled cake and decorate with your preferred toppings like chocolate chips, for example. Let it rest a bit to allow the icing to set.
The Independent
2 days ago
- The Independent
Generations of Germans believe Frederick the Great brought potatoes to Germany. It's a myth
Generations of Germans believe Frederick the Great brought the beloved potato to Germany. The legend is this: King Frederick II of Prussia wanted his subjects to eat potatoes, introduced to Europe in the 16th century from South America. But the people of Prussia, which later became part of a united Germany, wouldn't touch the tuber. So the 18th-century monarch resorted to trickery. He placed royal guards and soldiers along the edge of his palace garden — thus creating the illusion that potatoes were a rare and valuable crop reserved for the royal family and its aristocratic friends. But the guards withdrew from their posts each night, creating an opportunity for enterprising locals to sneak in and 'steal' the spuds. Thus began Germany's love affair with the humble Kartoffel and Frederick's rebranding as Der Kartoffelkönig, the potato king. Except it's all fake. Bogus. Phony. Falsch! as the Germans would say. And debunking it is a royal pain for Jürgen Luh, historian of the Prussian Palaces and Gardens Foundation, even when history has receipts. Archives of royal menus show the king instead had a penchant for Italian food and French wine. 'He never ate it,' Luh said. 'Any potato. Not boiled, not fried.' The unexciting truth is that the potato has been cultivated in Germany's Bavarian region since 1647, Luh said. Frederick's great-grandfather, Elector Frederick William, introduced it to the Brandenburg area of Prussia in the 1650s, but only because he liked the aesthetics of the plant's leafy greens. By the time Frederick the Great took the throne in 1740, the potato was grown in gardens throughout Prussia but not on a large scale. The king did actually issue royal decrees promoting the farming and production of potatoes, but his people ignored them. Potatoes did not become widespread in Prussia, in central and eastern Europe, until after the Napoleonic wars ended in 1815, after Frederick II's death in 1786. The guarded garden story, Luh said, is nonsense. And Frederick was more of a wannabe potato king than an actual one. But the fable has deep roots, and the myth makes money. To this day, visitors to Frederick's summer home of Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam, outside Berlin, leave raw potatoes and paper crowns on the king's grave. The palace's gift shops sell potato merchandise, from postcards and children's books to a 35-euro ($40) apron proclaiming the wearer as a Kartoffelkönig. Luh used to correct tour guides and visitors to the palace, but he's largely given up. Besides, he said, at least it means people are coming to Sanssouci and experiencing its rich history. 'The fact is that the legend has beaten the truth and the legend is just too beautiful,' he added. Whatever its roots, the potato is undeniably part of the German cultural identity. At Biohof Schöneiche, an organic farm outside Berlin, workers will harvest roughly 2,500 metric tons (5.5 million pounds) of potatoes come the annual September harvest. 'In most parts of the world, potatoes are considered a vegetable. In Germany it's a staple food,' general manager Axel Boehme said. ' People cannot imagine to have a meal without potatoes.' Regional recipes, passed down from every Oma (grandmother) to each new generation, debate the merits of a vinegar- or mayo-based Kartoffelsalat. From boiled (Salzkartoffeln) or pan-fried (Bratkartoffeln) to dumplings and pancakes (Kartoffelklösse and Kartoffelpuffer), the versatile vegetable is intertwined with the country's emotional heritage. For Anke Schoenfelder, project manager for German potato marking company Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, her favorite tuber tradition is rooted in making Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) for family gatherings. 'Taste is memory, right? And when this is related to your family, this is even more part of your identity,' she said. Plus, Schoenfelder added, the potato can be used as a beauty product — the juice can be good for your skin, she says — or a household cleaner, for stubborn stains on the bottom of your oven. For now, Der Kartoffelkönig's legend lives on. As Luh was speaking to The Associated Press in front of the king's grave, two tourists placed their offerings of potatoes on the tomb. One even took a selfie as she did so. 'I always think I should go here in the evening when I have no potatoes at home,' the historian joked. 'I could take them away and have a good meal afterwards.' __ Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) From Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, a German potato marking company. In true European fashion, the measurements provided refer to weight, not volume. You will need a 10-cup Bundt pan. Time: 90 minutes Serves: 12 Ingredients 9 oz (250g) high-starch potatoes (such as Russets and Maris Pipers) 9 oz (250g) carrots 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) carrot juice 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) sunflower oil 4 eggs (medium-size, room temperature) 7 oz (200g) sugar 1 packet vanilla sugar 4.5 oz (125g) almonds, ground 4.5 oz (125g) flour melted butter to grease the mold 2 tablespoons breadcrumbs Directions Wash the potatoes and boil them in salted water for about 20 to 25 minutes, until tender. Let them cool slightly, peel them, and then press them through a potato ricer into a bowl. Wash and peel the carrots and grate them finely with the potatoes, using a vegetable grater or a mandolin. Generously grease the Bundt pan with oil or butter. Coat the pan with some breadcrumbs. Preheat oven to 392°F (200°C) on the fan setting. Add carrot juice, sunflower oil, eggs, vanilla sugar, sugar, flour, baking powder and ground almonds to the mashed potatoes and grated carrots and mix with a hand mixer for about four minutes until a dough forms. Pour the potato-carrot cake batter into the prepared Bundt pan. Place the pan in the oven and bake for about 50 minutes until cooked through (if necessary, cover the pan with aluminum foil after half an hour to prevent the cake from burning). Let the cake cool completely (you can also do this on a balcony or terrace) before decorating it with icing. This is important, because otherwise the icing will seep into the cake. In a bowl, combine the powdered sugar and a little lemon juice until thickened. Pour the icing over the cooled cake and decorate with your preferred toppings like chocolate chips, for example. Let it rest a bit to allow the icing to set.
Daily Mail
25-06-2025
- Daily Mail
JOHN MACLEOD: What truly lies behind a smile (and how our late Queen had loveliest one I ever saw)
It was a balmy Windsor evening in 1878 and her grandson, Prince William of Prussia, was in attendance as Queen Victoria entertained the distinctly deaf Rear-Admiral The Hon Fitzgerald Algernon Foley to dinner. Conversation lagging, she asked kindly after his sister, whom said Admiral foggily mistook for the recently wrecked training-ship Eurydice – which he had just raised and salvaged, hence this coveted invitation for soup-to-nuts at the Royal table. 'Well, Ma'am, I am going to turn her over and have her bottom scraped…' As the future Kaiser Wilhelm II would dine out on for the rest of his life, Victoria 'hid her face in her handkerchief and shook and heaved with laughter,' as others present gnawed their napkins, or a knuckle, in desperate suppression of mirth. 'Yet,' as Elizabeth Longford intoned in an early, 1983 biography of our own late Queen, Victoria's great-great-granddaughter, 'only two photographs have ever been published of this amused old lady smiling.' Smiling is precious, personal – and, on occasion, political. As I thought lately when a text-messaged pinged from my dentist, suggesting I book what said BDS calls my annual check-up and what I like to call smile-maintenance. I happen to be blessed with a natural lighthouse-smile, at least since I quit smoking in 2014 and my gnashers lost the impression of tenemented Partick c 1969. And that, bar two wisdom-jobs I wisely had extracted in 2004 - I focused hard on the ceiling as the redoubtable dentist braced his left foot against the chair - all the MacLeod fangs survive and my two lonely fillings have been deftly maintained since the Callaghan administration. One is, indeed, gold, though you'd need to be tickling my tonsils to have the chance for a glimpse: the queue to do so is oddly short. But among the things I missed most, amidst the bemasked foggy-specs era of you-know-what half a decade ago, was the inability to lighten or defuse so many social, supermarket-aisle situations simply by beaming. I ended up hoisting my left hand in a sort of me-Tarzan-you-Jane placatory habit instead, and we were well into 2024 before I finally broke it. In September 2022, when all was over, I was briefly in sole charge of the family home in Edinburgh and an Amazon delivery dude called just half a minute before I was safely home with the Scottish Daily Mail and my lunch. I enthused. I sprinted. I gabbled. Moments later, I beheld him. I was late and he was Polish, but I raised an arm and beamed and, in an instant, our lad Zycinski glowed back in parallel ivory-castles. If you heard that wonderful What's up Doc? episode on Radio Four the other day – presented by identical twins Chris and Xand van Tulleken, still available on BBC Sounds – you will already know that smiling is a gesture both placatory and defensive. We do not usually switch on the famous grin with people we live with, or see every day. That's a realm of grunts, gurgles and downplayed chuckles. We smile for sought-after and hopeful significant others, eminent strangers, and potential foes. The gesture – not that I endorse van Tulleken evolutionary nonsense – is, like the chimpanzees recruited of yore for P G Tips ads, actually a fear-based grin. I am here, this is me, and I am no threat to you. In fact, the loveliest smile I ever saw – personally, and just for me, across St George's Gallery in Windsor Castle – was in April 2002 and from our late Queen, who for the Golden Jubilee had heroically invited the company of 500 of her best friends In the British media. An experiment she never repeated. To her, the Press was a necessary evil and, though I enjoyed banter with Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, to him we were a wholly unnecessary evil. For half a century on the throne, Elizabeth II had the daunting competition of her mother, her face blessed with a natural smile even in repose. The Queen's natural expression was earnest. Humourless. Late in life, she managed to make a joke of it. 'Oh, look, Philip, I've got my Miss Piggy face on…' But, even before she turned thirty – touring Canada and the USA as Princess Elizabeth; the Antipodes in 1953 as new-minted Queen – folk jibed at how often they beheld an unsmiling face. Even though, as she once justly protested, she would smile till it hurt. 'My mother is a star,' she once flared, around 1985. 'My daughter-in-law is a star. What does that make me?' Elizabeth the Steadfast, as it proved, beloved and respected – though the Queen was well in her seventies before reaching that haven. It is striking, looking back and over a longer arc of modern history, how late it is before we actually see many folk smiling. The Mona Lisa musters the faintest simper. The Laughing Cavalier a predatory smirk. It is only in the late, late 1700s we actually start to see people allowing the corners of their mouths to turn upwards just a little – in his landmark 1969 TV series, Civilisation, anent the Enlightenment, the late Sir Kenneth Clark enthused of the 'smile of reason' – and, through Victorian times, people never seemed to betray such vulnerability at all. The two surviving images of Queen Victoria actually looking amused involved, respectively, a grandchild playing up and a 1900 carriage-ride amidst exuberant Dubliners and the real issue was, of course, the slow shutter-speeds of her era. But there is also the horrific cultural fracture of the Great War. Before it, we have a gazillion surviving images of boys and youths in happy sporting teams, genial clubs and the Boys Brigade and so on, arms draped over one another, hands on mutual knees, cheek-to-cheek chumship and evidently poised to kick seven bells out of their opponents. Afterwards, we are suddenly in an era where it is all crossed-arms, upright posture, stern gazes ahead and where you sense – mere opponents duly defeated – said lads might then happily knock seven bells out of each other. On top of that, we have the ensuing decades of when cameras were still rather slow affairs and when, even in my lifetime, many public figures still had terrible teeth. Denis Healey, Denis Thatcher, Charlie Haughey, Mick McGahey– yellow, jaggy tartar-clotted leers. In the vanguard of a new political master-race, John F Kennedy blithely re-invented the modern professional politician as The Beatles recast the pop group. Hatless, 2-button suited, narrow tie, a glowing grin, permanent tan and a big, newscasterish TV head. But even Kennedy, as someone once shrewdly observed, was careful whom he was snapped smiling with: no photo-opportunity shared with Nixon or Khruschev betrays more than a scholarly frown. In 2007, out to neutralise two widely polled negatives, SNP media-handlers gave two flat orders. 'Smart-Alex' Salmond was not to appear on any campaign imagery with a grin; Nicola Sturgeon, 'Nippy Sweetie,' was never to be photographed without one. Back in 1997, the Tories foolishly declined what could have been their best campaign stroke in the history of ever. An image of a Colgate ring-of-confidence Tony Blair, exquisitely captioned, 'What lies behind the smile?'
