Mrs. Teabody Celebrates her Irish Roots, er, Tubers
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| Please pass the potatoes |
For some of us the potato is the ultimate comfort food. After all,
It is familiar.
It is dependably tasty.
It is uncomplicated.
Most Americans can easily identify the common white potato. Oh, it's gone fancy. It can be golden, red, purple. It can be fist-sized and nearly spherical, it can be egg-shaped, it can be long and skinny. If you do have Irish roots, there's a pretty good chance your family grows the same breed of potato their six great grandfathers planted. Because potatoes are delicious. (I'm talking about you, Kennebec).
Mr. Webster describes the potato as "a starchy plant tuber that is one of the most important food crops, cooked and eaten as a vegetable." For many of us the potato was the only vegetable we willingly dove into. Beat the hell out of Brussels sprouts . . .
You can do almost anything cooking-wise to a white potato and it will still be delicious. At its simplest, you can wash it a bit and munch on it raw or stick it in a real oven or in a microwave and cook it until it is rapturously soft and silky inside and use it as a transport vehicle for butter. A lowly but undeniably delicious baked potato. If I die at night, a thoroughly-baked potato slathered with butter and salted and peppered with abandon will be part of my last earthly meal.
Mr. Webster describes the potato as "a starchy plant tuber that is one of the most important food crops, cooked and eaten as a vegetable." For many of us the potato was the only vegetable we willingly dove into. Beat the hell out of Brussels sprouts . . .
You can do almost anything cooking-wise to a white potato and it will still be delicious. At its simplest, you can wash it a bit and munch on it raw or stick it in a real oven or in a microwave and cook it until it is rapturously soft and silky inside and use it as a transport vehicle for butter. A lowly but undeniably delicious baked potato. If I die at night, a thoroughly-baked potato slathered with butter and salted and peppered with abandon will be part of my last earthly meal.
HOWEVER, baked is far from your only option.
If you grew up in this German/Scots-Irish area of Pennsylvania, a typical evening meal looked like this. A huge black cast iron skillet filled to the brim with fried potatoes. The kitchen smelled heavenly. I never met a person in my life who'd turn down a skillet fried potato. Any leftovers? You must be joking.
When traveling was an aspect of normal life, I spent a week or so in Ireland every time I got the chance. In Ireland the potato is as common as air. It is available in some form at EVERY breakfast, lunch and dinner and any restaurant, bistro, pub, cafe or diner owner knows NOT to run out of this delicious side. The potato's versatility means you can boil, bake, saute, roast or fry it. You can leave it whole in preparation or shred it to bits or anything in between. You may peel it and remove its eyes or not. Regardless of what you try to do to a potato, it still respects you by offering up deliciousness.
I found lots of folks who share my love of potatoes in Ireland. Nothing was more audacious than serving two kinds of potatoes on the same plate. Here with the Sunday roast are two golden roasted potatoes and under the beef, a mound of mashed potatoes. If ever there was a moment I knew for certain I had met my tribe, this was it.
Meanwhile, back here on American soil, I'll be celebrating my Irish roots with potato cakes. I've been improvising lately. This pictured patty started with a bowl of leftover mash to which I added seasonings I love and then tossed in a chopped up sausage, some onion, a little sharp cheddar a couple eggs and, oh, yeah a few bread cubes. Formed generous patties, dipped them in beaten egg, then flour and panko. Fried in a heavy skillet with a little bit of butter, put on the lid and served at the temperature of molten cheese. And that, my sweet little Irish rose, is how this Irish American celebrates Saint Paddy's. And you , Dearie ? You. Do. You.
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