Oh, potatoes, how I love thee!  From ping-pong-ball-sized purple, yellow, and white to giant baked potatoes that serve two to shredded hash in the freezer and mashed spuds on the stove top.  Potatoes have been our constant companion over the last several months because everyone who lives in this house likes them! 

Serving them in their simplest forms of boiled, mashed, and baked does not appeal to Liam, but put a bit of crackle on the edges and everyone is scooping from the pan.  As Grand Marshal of Nourishment, I feel my heart sing when we have a dinner in which the main and side appeals to each person—enter grilled steaks (without a grill fire finishing them at 800 degrees) and roasted potatoes (perfectly cut into a 3/4-inch dice).

My first forage into hash browns on the stove left Liam asking, “Whoa, it’s so good!  What is it?”  And that initial shred intro left Liam working like a scientist in a potato lab to perfect homemade hash.  We researched the McDonald’s hash brown and found a recipe that called for a parboil of peeled potatoes, a shred in the food processor, an egg, and a browning in a skillet with salt and pepper.  Liam wondered what parboil meant, and I guessed, rather than looking up the recipe for parboil.  The result was the shredding of overcooked potatoes that surpassed the definition of parboil.  We hashed out shredded mashed potatoes in the skillet.  “Not quite there yet, is it, Mom?” “No,” I confirmed.

For roast potatoes, we have moved away from parboiling then roasting large pieces, finding it quicker to cut medium-sized potatoes into small pieces that will roast at 425 in about 25 minutes—with perhaps a last minute broil to brown the tops just a smidge more. Wedges of fries work, but they need to be flipped midway through.  After multiple roasted potato tastings, Liam decided his favorite roasted potato is the ¾-inch cube as it has the most surface area for a good crunch to form; plus those small pieces have the least amount of mushy potato inside. This size is my go-to as well because they don’t need to be flipped mid-roast, and that maneuver is too futzy for me.  The key to making this roast appeal to everyone is having just the right amount of olive oil: enough to provide a glistening layer that crisps up but not so much that they are swimming.  The combo of potatoes, olive oil, and salt have household-wide palette appeal.

If we go for a mash, which is Will’s favorite preparation, then we put a second pot on to boil noodles for Liam.  Sometimes the main dish recipe results in a beautiful sauce for the potatoes that is decadent for Bill and me, and full disclosure, Bill is the chef supreme when it comes to making those sauces.  Again, that scene gets a bit futzy for me as I hurl food into the dinner feeding trough.  Barring a sauce, my potato heaven is a deep indentation made in a mound of potatoes to make a melting pot for a small dollop of butter, followed by a generous pepper dousing.  That is a plate of comfort food.  On the other hand, Will doesn’t want to see that drippy butter—I’m pretty sure he does not realize that butter is used in the making of mash.  He likes shredded cheddar cheese, chopped bacon, and the salt shaker near the pot of potatoes.  I used to twice bake potatoes with these same ingredients, but after watching Will just eat the insides, the twice-baked effort seemed redundant.

To peel or not to peel?  That is the question.  For the mash purist, peel.  For the woman preparing the mash, do not peel.  The unpeeled is not accepted as whole-heartedly as the pure form.  Most of us aren’t big on leftover mashed potatoes, however, one morning I pulled a small bowl out of skin-filled mash and ate it cold for breakfast.  It was like a potato salad without the calories; I let my imagination run with it, for I do not make potato salad.  There is no serving size control on that particular dish.

Normally, due to lack of planning, I use the microwave to bake potatoes.  For Will who doesn’t eat the skins, this isn’t a big deal, for the soft white of the potato seems about the same whether microwaved or baked—unless we run a little short on time in the microwave.  The resulting slight crunch cut-with-a-knife potato makes for a complete waste of material and time.

I’ve made roasted potatoes a few times on the stove top: with a bag of small potatoes, a couple tablespoons of butter, a swirl of olive oil, and pinch of salt. When I steamed mussels last week, I thought this would be a good tater for everyone.  While Bill and I ate mussels, the boys could have burgers, and we could all have potatoes.  As the potatoes were sizzling away, I gave them a good shake now and then to keep them roasting evenly.  I never take the lid off as that releases the steam which I feel is integral in the cooking process. 

As the burgers came off the grill, the mussels popped open in the pan, and the potatoes smelled done.  Do you know that moment when all prepared food comes together at the same time?  It’s an art form and a rarity when I’m in the kitchen.  “We can have the corn on the cob after the steak and potatoes.”  “Do you want your salad first?  The gas went out on the grill and the steaks are only halfway cooked.”  “Roasted asparagus is just as good at room temperature as it is straight from the oven!” 

My reaction to the potatoes in the pan when I scooped off the lid was a bit more intense—with hardly a salvageable work-around.  I’m unsure what I said, but my granddad’s voice simply observed, “When it’s brown it’s cooking and when it’s black it’s done!”  They were done. I’m guessing I went to the grill for the burgers and forgot to shake the potatoes before and after that deck visit.  The potatoes were blackened half way up from where they had been resting on the bottom of the pan.  I need to consult the actual Ina Garten recipe for cooking time and temperature before trying this recipe again.

Bill’s voice picked up where Granddad’s assertion stopped.  “They’ll be fine!”  Bill and I scooped them onto our plates, cut off the bottom half, and ate the tops of the poor little things.  That evening—as he does most every evening—Bill cleaned up from dinner.  The next morning, I found a clear glass bowl of optimistically-packed leftover burnt potatoes.  I shook my head and said, “Inedible.”

Bless him.