A potato a day…
Today I sat down to think about the menus for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. I was fairly pleased with myself, listing a particularly pie recipe which I recently discovered, when I noticed that on these two menus, and I suspect on most that I compile, I automatically include some form of potatoes. Brussels sprouts in bacon, all sorts of salads, glazed carrots with pistachios, and whatever trendy dish may lead the lists, but all lists must include potatoes.
Come to think of it, growing up there were few meals in our house that didn’t include some form of the tuber. From the ordinary boiled potatoes that could accompany anything from a hot dog to a roast chicken, to those little white portions that soak up the heavenly of flavors in a stew, these most ordinary of the ordinary were wonderful. Memories of Sunday morning breakfasts and the crisp outside of home fries that my father would make with the left-over bacon drippings as well as the summer staple of my mother’s mayonnaise-loaded potato salad depend on a pot of boiling water and potatoes.
Friday nights at our house in Brooklyn meant fried filet of flounder and home-made French fries. Mom would cut the long russets with a special crinkle cutter and then fry them twice with a resting period between each bath in the oil. We tolerated the requisite Friday fish but looked forward to the fries. Adding to the essence of the French fry was the fact that my mother was born in England so those fries were accompanied not only with catsup but also the tang of vinegar. If you haven’t tried vinegar sprinkled on French fries … you should.
If you ask any of my siblings about their favorite form of potato, mashed would be the answer, but just mashed is an oversimplification for people like my parents and their relatives, who were mashed potato aficionados. Mashed potatoes were a chemical process tour de force requiring skills perfected over years of experience. The spuds had to be cut in just the right size for boiling and the time in the boiling water was crucial. I can see my mother testing them for the right degree of doneness. Drained of the water, the potatoes stayed in the pot over the heat for a few minutes to dry up any residual wetness before the mashing began. How many times did she tell me this over the years? Using the old-fashioned potato masher, Mom would work the potatoes for a known-only-to-the-cook amount of time and effort before she added a mixture of warm milk and butter, carefully assessing how much would yield the correct degree of silkiness to the mash.
Salt, pepper, maybe some parsley…some more mashing and a final mix with the big wooden spoon before the result was available for critique.
On the big holidays, the mash was elevated with a concoction of potatoes, rutabagas and parsnips, a mixture attended to with the same eye for perfection.
There were always mashed potatoes left over … on purpose … because the next day, those mashed lovelies would be mixed with shredded cabbage, kale or most any greens and fried with butter as colcannon. I am salivating right now.
Potatoes are a member of the nightshade family of vegetables which includes tomatoes, peppers, eggplants and some distant relatives of lesser, if not more deadly reputation, e.g. mandrake and belladonna. Originating in the mists of antiquity in Peru, the potato, part of what is known as the Columbian exchange, feeds millions of people throughout the world.
My father’s family, the Smithwicks, are here in the United States because of the potato famine in Ireland and my mother’s family, the Champions and Toms families, emigrated to the U.S. after WWI in search of work, bringing the English preference for potatoes in any form with them. And so it is not unusual for this vegetable to be a central part of my cultural heritage and vegetable preferences.
There is one kind of potato that is, hands down, eyes up to heaven, my absolute favorite.
Picture this:
It’s a warm summer night. My father is building a fire in the ersatz fireplace made of cinder blocks and old refrigerator shelves that sits behind the house in Carmel. Maybe you begin to play a game of cards with your siblings or chat with your grandparents as you wait. Family voices add to the chorus of crickets, spring peepers and other night creatures. The back screen door creeks as my grandmother brings out a small tray of pot holders.
My Dad, when the fire was just right, places 8 big potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil onto the coals. The anticipation is heady. Only my Dad knew when to rake the potatoes out and the length of time for them to rest before removing the metal foils and passing them to each of us, now ready with the potholders. Set up for our use, salt, pepper and butter, real butter, not oleo, were on the small table by the door to the house. We bounced the hot potatoes back and forth between our hands until they were cool enough to eat, crisp skin and all – a paradise of carbohydrates on a warm summer night with my Dad. It’s the kind of memory that preserves the experience when it is no longer possible.
It was only recently that I learned that potatoes have something called a high glycemic index which means that the starch of the potato is quickly turned into sugar, illustrated by one source as one baked potato’s sugar load being greater than that of a large glazed donut. So consuming one of these pomme de terres creates a sugar high! Potatoes make you feel better. And in today’s world, what could be wrong with that?
And on my Christmas menus? It will be luscious latkes on Christmas Eve and, on Christmas Day, it will have to be the quintessential bowl of mashed potatoes made with real cream and Irish butter.
