(Once, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I lived smack dab in the middle of an area famous for its potatoes. And every day, on the radio, an announcer would say: “The Malin Chamber of Commerce would like to remind you that . . . it’s just not a meal without . . . potatoes.” Which was really a very nice way to put it . . .)
Potato salad is a perfect example of what we might call Recipe Fear of Failure. You know what I mean. The cookbooks that come out relentlessly every year change their minds about what you must and must not do about such a wide variety of things that I often wonder just how in God’s name we all stand it. Do we really need someone to tell us that we MUST use waxy potatoes for a perfect effect?
Apparently so.
It’s interesting to watch the evolution of this kind of thing. When I was in my twenties, these recipes used to terrify me. Waxy potatoes? Oh my Lord. I don’t even know what a WAXY POTATO is. Somehow I had this feeling that if I didn’t use waxy potatoes, something would explode. Or the person I served the salad to would stop loving me and instantly leave me for the snide girl with big breasts who my mother thought was so much funnier than I was. Or I would be a failure in . . . in what? Whatever.
Here is a great pleasure about getting older, and it’s a pleasure I want to freely share with anyone who needs or would like it: you get to watch these recipes change, you get to watch the stern mothers and dads of the cooking world go 180 degree turns, while insisting, the whole trip, that this point on the compass—no, THIS one—is the real, true, only way.
Diana Kennedy (who by the way, is in my top ten pantheon of writers, let alone cookbook writers) is a hilarious example of this. Read her early cookbooks. They are models of culinary dogmatism. You must use a special kind of Saran wrap because, apparently, some Mexican confidante of hers did. By her latest books, though, she’s been thoroughly beaten up by life—lucky for us. And her attitude now is, “What the hell. Whatever tastes good. Who cares if it was originally made by Spanish nuns in a convent outside of Durango?”
But she, come to think of it, is an example of a passionately sincere writer who believes deeply in what she writes. She didn’t do a 180 degree turn so much as evolve. Writers like Kennedy—those kind of people—have a lot to say.
The ones you want to look out for, and I mean to the extent of putting a metaphoric dagger through their black hearts and burying them under a full moon in a lead coffin, are the careerists. The careerist food writers. You can easily tell these guys. Whatever is the latest thing, they’re for it. They all know where El Bulli is and who Thomas Keller trained (according to the cooking magazines, as far as I can tell, that’s every publicized chef in the known world). They’re for balsamic vinegar the minute everyone else is; they act like they’re the first people in the world to drink whatever wines are suddenly all over the mass media (when this happens, suspect a new media consultant hired on by whatever product you’re seeing pop up). I loathe them. Or perhaps not them—their works. I have sympathy for them, mind you. It’s not easy making a living by carefully plotting a slight superiority to an audience that can turn on you in a second—kind of like working as a shark trainer when you have a bad paper cut on your hand. But the incredible stance that they know more than you do, and that they have to maintain that superiority in order to keep the whole machine turning over . . . I get so I want to overthrow our entire economic system just to set them and us free.
But you and I don’t have to wait for the revolution to claim our own autonomy. We can make potato salad with whatever the hell we have in the kitchen. And the only thing that matters is that we enjoy it and our loved ones enjoy it too.
Back in the days when I couldn’t figure out what a waxy potato was, I used russets or Idahos (I think they’re the same; they look the same to me, anyway). I loved the way they crumbled and mushed bits of themselves into the salads. I felt guilty about this, mind, because every new cookbook I had said that THE IMPORTANT THING ABOUT POTATO SALAD WAS THE INTEGRITY OF THE POTATOES. My potatoes, I had to sadly admit, were a complete failure in the integrity department. They didn’t hold together, let alone hold their own. Instead, they joined with the rest of the ingredients to make a kind of celestial tasting hash.
Of course, I eventually figured out the waxy potato thing. Red potatoes, Yukon gold potatoes, boiling potatoes: they’re bung full of that kind of integrity. But I didn’t mess with them until recently, when the cooking mags and cookbooks began to announce that you MUST USE RUSSET POTATOES for potato salad, or be cast out into the darkness. It turns out that now that crumbling and mushing thing I was so embarrassed to love is just what you need for a new, hip, fresh, retro look at potato salad. Waxy potatoes . . . well. They’re so . . . yesterday.
So now I felt sorry for those poor red potatoes. Perversely, when these new recipes appeared, dogmatically agreeing with what I had secretly thought all along, I started buying the waxy ones instead.
And you know what? It doesn’t matter what kind of potato you use for potato salad. It doesn’t matter what kind of onion, either. It turns out they’re all great.
What you need for potato salad:
Enough potatoes for the amount of people you want to feed. You cut these in the shape you feel like. I like diced or sliced, myself.
Then you cook them whatever way you feel like. You can boil them. You can bake them whole and cut them later. I like to steam them after they’re cut up. So I do.
Then you put them in a big bowl and while they’re still hot sprinkle them with some white wine, or lemon juice, or a little light vinegar. Even some chicken broth. They’ll soak this up and be tastier.
Now you add chopped onion of any kind (chives, white mild onion, red onion, scallions, shallots, onion tops from the plants you have in the garden) . . . and/or minced garlic . . . and as much chopped herbs as you like. Parsley for sure. Then one other, a mild one, if you have it: dill, or basil, or chervil. Tarragon, or marjoram, is good, too, but you need to use a lighter hand with these. The other three you can just chop and add at will.
Toss with the dressing of your choice. A plain vinaigrette. A mustard vinaigrette. Mayonnaise. Garlic mayonnaise. Sour cream. Yogurt. A mix of mayo and sour cream. Or mayo and yogurt. Or yogurt and mustard if you’re dieting. I like garlic mayonnaise.
Salt and pepper, of course.
Serve hot, warm, or cold. On a bed of shredded lettuce is nice.
This is what I did the other night:
Diced red potatoes, steamed, then sprinkled with white wine. I added chopped onion tops from the onion plants in the garden, and almost a whole chopped bunch of parsley. Lots of dill. Alex had harvested some really sweet peas, so I shelled those and added them raw. I had a bowl of Garlic Mayonnaise (aka aioli) in the fridge, so tossed the salad with a few spoonfuls of that, salted and peppered, and served immediately, still warm, with sandwiches: bacon, lettuce, avocado, tomato and aioli for me, and extra sharp Cheddar, lettuce, avocado, tomato and aioli for him. Glass of rosé for me, a local ale for him. Unbelievably delicious and perfect for the three digit heat.
And don’t get me started on Salade Niçoise . . .
On a cold and clear night, my thoughts turned again to vegetable stew for dinner . . . and a wilted celery salad with a mustard vinaigrette. That one I like to make with dumplings.
Now that vegetable stew is always an improvisation based on how I’m feeling at the moment . . . so this particular night found me putting down a base of finely minced onions, carrot, celery, mushroom stems, garlic stewed in oil and butter, then adding some tomato paste and herbs (parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme—yes, that’s right), then red wine, then chopped tomatoes, then big chunks of what I had on hand . . . a couple of purple potatoes, a half a red onion, three cut up carrots, a couple of pieces of celery, a lot of chunked mushrooms, some baby yellow squash saved from the last frost, whole garlic cloves, more thyme, a bay leaf, a lovage leaf . . . and at the last minute, I couldn’t resist it, a bit of organic orange peel and a slug of Pernod from the cupboard. Covered the whole thing with water and then salt. Simmered till veggies were done. The gravy was a little too thin for my liking, so I poured the liquid into another pan and boiled it down till it tasted great, then thickened it with a beurre manié—about a tablespoon of butter mashed with a tablespoon of flour, then whisked into the sauce.
I put the sauce back in with the veggies. At this point, I added some frozen spinach and frozen peas for a splash of green color. Heated it all through till nice and melded. Corrected the seasoning.
But what about dumplings? We usually have dumplings with this, and the Beloved Husband was expecting them. But I just didn’t think, when I tasted things on my mind’s palate, that dumplings GO with Pernod and orange peel.
So this is the recipe I wanted to share here. I already had it in the refrigerator.
I don’t know what to call this. “Potatoes cooked earlier and then smooshed with what sour cream or cream and/or butter is available, along with mashed garlic and pepper and chopped parsley and then smoothed in a baking dish, and then covered with either little bits of butter or dribbled with cream, or both, and then topped with shredded cheese (I used Parmesan this particular night, but Swiss is good, Jack is great, Cheddar superb, and so on) and sprinkled with paprika. Then baked for twenty minutes or so at 350° till nice and brown and crusty.”
That’s the best title I can give it, I suppose.
The point of this potato dish is that you make it on a night you’re baking potatoes for dinner. Just add a half dozen more than you think you’ll need, and decant the baked insides into a baking dish with the cream, garlic, pepper, parsley, etc. Stick into the fridge for when you might need it.
I needed it just then with the veggie stew. I baked it as above, then served squares of it in a bowl, napped by the stew. Celery salad in little bowls. Red wine. Chocolate and dried fruit for dessert.
A perfect fall dinner. The B.H. never missed the dumplings. And he had thirds.
Potatoes and Chilies is is one of those dishes that sound absolutely bizarre, but then when you taste it, your inner child coos with delight. The first time I had it was in a Chinese Muslim restaurant whose name I refuse to reveal—there’s already too long a wait for a table—and I only ordered it because my dining companion and I are both part Irish, and it cracked us up to think of Irish and Chinese food on the same plate.
It was heavenly. I never forgot it. I never saw it again either, until . . . until . . . well, I have to thoroughly recommend Mark Bittman’s cookbook, The Best Recipes in the World. (The title’s no lie. I have, up till now, cooked from this cookbook the best asparagus and fried eggs, the best quick pickled cucumbers and zucchini, the best steamed fish, the best sesame noodles . . . I could go on.) There it was, surprising me in the middle of his cookbook. “Potatoes and Chilies.” And since the Beloved Husband’s ur-food is potatoes, and since his affection for chile plants leads him every year to overstock the garden with more Scoville units than any normal family can use comfortably, it seemed a natural—if only to get rid of some of those chilies.
He’d been growing a Peruvian yellow chile called an aji, and he absolutely fawned on those plants. Responding to his great love, the plants produced madly. Hotly and madly. They’re a really fruity chile, delicious, but you can’t eat a whole bunch of them at once. At least, I thought you couldn’t, but it turns out that with the potatoes you can. You get their flavor and not so much of their heat.
Here’s how you do it (I’ve adapted the Bittman recipe, predictably, to make it a little less mild).
Bring a big pot of water to the boil. While that’s happening, peel and grate 4 or so potatoes. (I used 6 medium-ish ones—Yukon Golds because that was what the Chinese/Muslim cooks used, and let me tell you, that was the right choice. But use what you have or what you like, as always.) When the water boils, salt, add the potatoes and blanch for thirty seconds . . . not so they’re cooked, just so they’re tender crisp. Drain.
Julienne 4 aji chilies. (Bittman recommends two minced Thai chilies, or 1 jalapeno, or 5 to 10 small dried chilies. In the Chinese/Muslim restaurant, they julienned yellow chile and lots of it, so I tried to recreate that.) Put a couple of tablespoons of peanut or neutral oil in a skillet over medium high heat. Add the chilies, cook till they sizzle. Add the potatoes, cook, stirring all the time, till they brown, about 5 minutes. Salt and pepper. Taste. Adjust seasoning.
Eat right away. You’ll be glad you did.
We had these with corn on the cob and Bittman’s pickled cucumbers, and the inner children around here were in a good mood that night. In fact, the inner children said I could have used even more chilies, which was a good thing to know.
A Potato-Onion-Arugula-Rosemary frittata is always good. I love frittatas. I love them hot, I love them room temperature, I love them cold. You can put just about anything into them, or nothing but a few herbs, and change them around like those easy to accessorize black dresses that “go everywhere from day to night.” Pretty much the basic pattern is this: stew some vegetables in butter or oil till cooked. Cool and mix with stirred eggs. Add chopped parsley, or mashed garlic, or bits of cheese, or any combination of the above. Salt and pepper. Heat oil in a skillet (only use butter if you’re going to eat the frittata hot . . . butter isn’t as good as it should be when it re-congeals). Pour in the egg mixture, lift it and swirl it like you do a regular omelet. Turn the heat down and let it cook for awhile till it looks fairly done on the bottom and is a nice brown there. Then either 1.) flip it over (I never do this without it ending in tears, but you’re probably more adept than me), or 2.) put in a 400° oven till it cooks through, or 3.) (my preferred option) stick it under the broiler till it’s done the way you like it and a little browned on top. Watch it carefully if you do this; you don’t want it turning to leather.
One night it happened that we didn’t have any bread, so I decided on a potato frittata. There was a lot of arugula about to bolt in the garden, so I whacked off a good three or four handfuls of that. And I had a brief yen for rosemary, which I don’t usually in the summer, but there it was. I cut a little branch with some nice juicy needles on it.
This is what I did.
Heated some oil in a nonstick skillet. Added two peeled, thinly sliced Russet potatoes and half an onion diced. Salt. Cooked gently with a lid on until the potatoes were done but nothing was browned. Chopped my handfuls of arugula, threw them in, stirred around till they wilted, then took the whole thing off the heat to cool.
Meantime, stirred five eggs in a bowl, added some mashed garlic, salt and pepper, and the rosemary leaves chopped.
When the vegetables were cool, I poured them into the eggs, gave a stir, wiped out the skillet with a paper towel, put it back on a medium flame to heat with a little oil. (I also, at this point, turned the broiler on to heat.) When hot enough to make a flick of water off my fingers sizzle, I poured in the eggs. Swirled them around, lifted them up to let the eggs firm up and make a good base. Turned the heat down to low and cooked for a few more minutes, till I could see the bottom was done through the still liquid top.
Then I stuck the pan under the broiler unit for about two or three minutes till the top was done the way I like it. (Make sure if you do this that your skillet is ovenproof. I’ve forgotten before, and what it did to the plastic handle and the smell in my kitchen was ugly.) Pulled it out and left it to cool till dinner.
This would serve three people with a lot of other accompaniments, or two people, maybe with some left over for lunch. It would probably only serve one and a half teenagers, but odds are if you are a teenager or you feed one, I didn’t have to tell you that.
We had cold boiled artichokes to start, dipped in a garlic mayonnaise made earlier in the day. Then we had the frittata. As a salad on the side, asparagus also boiled earlier, and then left out to cool spritzed with lemon (you can sprinkle olive oil on, too—I didn’t bother because I knew we’d slather them with more mayonnaise). At room temperature, they’re so suave, those fresh asparagus.
(As for the leftovers: the day after, for lunch, I mixed some hot chickpeas with the leftover garlic mayonnaise and served them over shredded lettuce and grated carrot, with the leftover frittata diced on top. We used warmed whole wheat pita bread to scoop the whole lot up. Hot sauce added at will.)