potatoes are a labor of love
A yellow onion, diced, and laid to rest in a pool of shimmering olive oil in a medium sized cast iron skillet. Low to medium heat, give it a stir, add a few grinds of salt and black pepper. Let caramelize slowly while I cube (or sort of evenly chop a yellow potato). In goes the potato. Season with smoked paprika, cumin, more salt and pepper. My sibling once told me cumin is the magical potato spice, and I wholly believe that. It accentuates the warmth the starch already has within it. At this point, I always put a lid on the skillet and turn the heat down. I want the steam to build up and cook the potatoes through, until they're nice and soft.
At the same time, the oven is preheated, and a few slices of turkey bacon peppered generously are laid out on a baking sheet. When the oven is hot, I put the bacon in, and let it sit in there, only taking it out to flip it once. This is the way my old friend made them (we had a falling out, a pretty serious one, in 2018 or so. If you somehow find this, I miss you, I would like to make up, despite all that happened) that time we were staying at your partner's house in upstate New York, recording music for a whole weekend. That house felt like a museum, her parents had decorated it with various antiques arranged in delicate tableau.
I remember you were the first person to make turkey bacon in that way for me, and had breakfast ready, just like I still make it today, with potatoes and over easy eggs, a couple pieces of hearty toast buttered just enough, when I finally got to the house after a 4 hour drive north. I still remember the drive, the way the pavement of the highway up there was bleached nearly white and cracked slightly, as it wound its way through the mountains. It wasn't like the drive through the lush forests of the Blue Ridge mountains I'd do so many times in the years ahead. This drive was sparsely beautiful. The road seemed chiseled into the rocky cliffs around it, and the air was crisp and dry as it came in through the cracked window with a cool breath on my left arm, stuck out with a cigarette in between my fingers.
Another time, I remember making these potatoes with you for dinner one night. We had most of the lights turned down, and the stove was lit with just the dim stove light. Once all the spuds were nestled in with the onions, you put the lid on it, and narrated as the steam built up, your wonderful sense of humor animating the contents of the pot. I can't remember exactly what you said, but I remember smiling as you stood there, hand poised over the lid, waiting for just the moment to lift it directly up, in a way so that the steam retained the domed shape of the lid like a bubble for a few seconds. You pushed the lid back down, and played with it like that for a little bit, clouds of steam floating out like morning mist on marshes from the edges, before declaring them ready. We ate breakfast for dinner many nights, in the various places we called home, for years. Cooking the potatoes was always an animated, warm moment, just like this one, and the time in New York.
Another time, in the apartment my sibling, Jack, lived in when they lived in Porter Square, we were making potatoes in their shared kitchen. I remember the soft light coming through the window on the side of the house. The stove was set against one wall and a single counter top was across the room, the way a lot of these slightly crappy Boston apartments are. After the lid came off, and they were ready, you said now we turn up the heat, and let the bottom crisp up. I've never been able to do it just like that the way you do, but I have developed my own method that produces similar results. At the very end, I put the skillet under the broiler for 5 minutes or so. The edges of the potatoes crisp and they taste exactly like the way I always wanted diner homefries to taste.
Jack and I made potatoes like this many times over the years, one time on a skillet in the tent they were living in while on a farm in New Hampshire, before their yurt was finished. We both slept out there, it was a pretty big tent, a canvas one made for colder weather. There was a small wood stove in the corner, with a cauldron of herbs simmering, spreading their magic through the already warm woody atmosphere inside. There was just enough space in there for my sleeping bag, on a small cot, and their wooden twin bed that my dad built 25 years ago or so. I remember we opened the flap in the morning when we cooked, the heat of the stove being so hot that it made the tent borderline uncomfortable, despite the cool late fall morning of New Hampshire (I can't remember what season it was but I think it was fall, because they weren't in the tent for that long, the yurt was finished before winter, and then a deluge of snow and ice collapsed the tent just in time for them to move into the yurt).
Another time we were both living in our apartment that we shared together years later, before I moved to Asheville for a bit and they moved back out to western MA. It was right on a busy road in the town we grew up in, and this time, we changed up the recipe a little. They were working on a farm and would always bring home copious amounts of root veg, so much we didn't know what to do with. Pale turnips, beautiful rosy watermelon radish, it all went into the skillet and in turn into the oven. This is when I really started to appreciate the versatility of cooking potatoes, how you can add various ingredients and make an entire delicious comfort food out of just one main starch. There are no rules. Sometimes I'll grate a sharp cheddar on top, before putting in under the broiler. Sometimes I'll add some broth and make it into more of a stew, simmering it instead in a covered dutch oven for hours with chicken thighs, pre-browned, or chunks of beef (excellent for lazy winter nights).
When I was living in Asheville, in my friend's house, I learned how she would make potatoes (exactly the same as the way she used to make them in her old apartment in New Hampshire, though I didn't pay attention to her process then). Lea took the sheet pan approach, combing course chopped potatoes and quartered red peppers and onions all on a big sheet pan, the same one every time, darkened with the patina that only comes from regular high temperature use. I remember she would put them into the oven at a low temperature for a while, I don't think she ever set a timer, and then we'd go out to the porch and smoke, only coming in to check the potatoes and eventually put them under the broiler. This is where I learned the broiler trick, which I think is crucial to arriving at the desired texture, that slightly crispy but not burnt, perfect golden brown surface.
My dad always says my stepmom makes the perfect potatoes for dinner. She always claims its simple, she just sticks them in water and boils them until they're done, but after a life time of seeing them on the table, I see its a little bit more than that. I think this is the way she learned from her family in Austria, but I'm not sure. By the time they're on the table, they're perfect spheres, peeled, rolled in freshly chopped parsley, in a shallow bowl piled neatly next to a platter of home made schnitzel and something pickled. We always put one onto our plate and mash it roughly on our own with a fork, a pat of butter goes on, and that's it. It is simple, but I don't think any of us have been able to make potatoes exactly like the same way to this day.
I still remember the way my grandmother taught me how to make twice baked potatoes for Thanksgiving. For years, I was the one in charge of this treasured part of the meal. She'd boil potatoes, and then peel them under cold water, one by one. After they were all peeled, they would go into the mixing bowl and get mashed, with copious amounts of butter, parika, salt and pepper, sour cream, sharp cheddar, and parsley. We would all put the bowl in the center of the table, all of the skins laid out on baking sheets around it, and each take our spoon and start packing the shells with the pillowy, steaming contents. When they were all arranged on the sheets, loaded up, we would put a last pinch of cheddar on them, and then put them back into the oven for their second bake. We always made roughly 3 or 4 dozen and somehow we never had enough. Today, they are a treasured part of the Thanksgiving menu at my sister and her husband's restaurant.
I think, after all these experiences, cooking potatoes is a labor of love. You don't just cook potatoes for everyone, because no matter the process, it always tastes best when you cook them slowly. They need time to steam, to crisp up. The aroma always makes the house feel like a home, somewhere you want to share with someone. There's a reason I don't really remember other recipes the way I remember potatoes, and a reason I don't think you can write down a potato recipe, you simply remember potatoes, and cook them how the people you've loved and love have cooked them.