You may have noticed that new Recipes and Stories entries have been rather sporadic over the last couple of years. That's because now that I'm no longer teaching and writing a newspaper column there's just so much to say about the cooking that goes on in my kitchen day-in-day-out. A lot of it I've already written about more than anyone needed to read, and the rest isn't easy to put down—not because it's complicated, but because it's just cooking—without a recipe either in front of me or even the front of my mind. Things are measured, though not with scales, cups, and spoons but with my eyes, tongue, and hands, relying on five decades of experience. That's something a teacher can tell students about, but the only way to really get it is by doing it.
It usually evolves along these lines: last week was St. Patrick's Day, which is a big deal where we used to live. You couldn't miss it in Savannah if you were blind and deaf. Well ahead of time, I either had a nice piece of corned beef simmering in the slow-cooker or a pot of Irish Stew on the back of my stove. But it's not a big deal here in Petersburg, so this year, it slipped up on me without a scrap of corned beef or lamb in the house. What to make to mark the holiday that was sort-of Irish without also making a trek to the grocery? Shepherd's Pie? No, that needed lamb, too. But wait: there was some lovely ground sirloin that needed to be cooked and plenty of potatoes. All right, then: Cottage pie (what it's called when it's not made with lamb) it is!
The ingredients on hand for this cottage pie were gold potatoes (what I had in the bin), unsalted butter, whole milk, a medium yellow onion, a couple of large carrots, peanut or olive oil, about a-half-to-two-thirds of a pound of ground sirloin, instant blending flour, a couple of cups of beef broth (exactly how much will depend on how much gravy I want at the time), Worcestershire sauce, dried thyme (or chopped fresh when I have it but I didn't) and frozen tiny peas. A salt pig of kosher salt and my favorite peppermill are always right there by the cooktop.
If I've got time, I cook potatoes for mashing whole, without peeling them. It takes longer and there's the pain and tedium of peeling them while they're boiling hot, but it's worth it. I scrub them well under cold running water, put them in a heavy-bottomed three-quart pot, and cover them by an inch with cold water and add a pinch of salt. If I'm in a hurry, or just am not going to peel hot potatoes no matter how much difference it would make, I peel them raw, cut them into quarters or large chunks (depending on how big they are), put them in the pot, cover them by half an inch with water, and add a more generous pinch of salt. I put a lid on and bring it to a boil over medium-high heat, then adjust the heat to a steady bubble, set the lid askew, and cook until the potatoes are easily pierced with a paring knife. Whole ones take about twenty or thirty minutes (depending on how big they are), the peeled chunks seven to eight minutes.
While the potatoes cook, I trim the onion, split it lengthwise, then peel and dice it, then peel the carrots and cut them into medium-large dice, and put both aside.
When the potatoes are done, I drain and allow them to cool a couple of minutes, then if they're whole I pull off their skins with my fingers, using a paring knife to help get it loose, and cut them into chunks. If they've cooked in chunks, I just drain them and cover the pot.
If I want the mash to be completely smooth, I dump them into a bowl, then put them through a potato ricer back into the pot. But for this, a few lumps don't matter, so I just leave the chunks in the pot, put it back over medium low heat, and add a generous pinch of salt. I scatter slices of butter over the potatoes—a couple of tablespoons in about six slices—a little less than if they were going to be served on their own, cover them again, and bring about two-thirds of a cup of whole milk to the boiling point in the microwave.
Then I uncover and start crushing the potatoes with a potato masher until they're evenly smashed and the butter is melted and mixed in. Still using the masher, I gradually mix in milk until they're smooth but a little stiffer than if they were being served on their own. I taste and adjust the salt, mix it in, then cover and set them aside in a warm spot while making the pie filling.
I warm a generous lump of butter and equal amount of oil in a deep 10-inch, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat. When the butter is melted and stops sputtering, I roughly crumble in half the ground meat and let it get lightly brown on the bottom, then start tossing it until it just loses its raw red, making sure not to break it up too much so that there are still a lot of nice fat lumps. I take it up with a slotted spoon to a shallow bowl, then brown the other half of the meat, add it to the bowl, and finally season all of it lightly with salt and pepper.
Adjusting the heat under the skillet to medium, I tip it and if it looks like it needs a little more fat, add another lump of butter—but just enough to keep the vegetables from sticking and to blend with the flour for the roux. The onion goes in and is sautéed until it's starting to color, then the carrot chunks go in and are sautéed until they're beginning to soften and the onion is golden. I sprinkle instant blending flour over all that until it looks like enough for the amount of gravy I'm making, stir until it's smooth, then slowly stir in the broth. Still stirring, I let it come to a boil, adjust the heat to a simmer, and season it well with salt, pepper, thyme, and Worcestershire. It simmers until the carrots are almost done and it's nice and thick. If I got carried away with the flour or I've had to let it simmer longer and it gets too thick, I stir in a little more broth.
I sprinkle the still half-frozen peas over the gravy until it looks like enough—about a cup or maybe a little more, stir them in, let it come back to a simmer, and cook until the peas are tender—maybe four minutes or so. I then stir in the beef, give it a taste and adjust the salt, pepper, and Worcestershire, and let it simmer just long enough for the beef to warm through, because overcooking it will make it hard and flat-tasting—so maybe a minute, if that. It then comes off the heat and I divide it among two individual gratin dishes.
While the filling cools slightly, I position an oven rack about eight inches below the heat source and preheat the oven broiler. When I'm ready to finish it, I dollop the potatoes over the filling until it's mostly covered, but don't try to spread them much. (They get goopy and start mixing into the gravy: Learned that the hard way.)
Finally, I run the dishes under the broiler just until the potatoes are lightly browned. I never pay attention to how long it takes, because I'm not watching a clock but the top of the potatoes. We eat these lovely individual pies right away, with crusty bread if we have and want it.
Well, as you see if you've waded all the way to here, that's no way to write a recipe. But it's the way to cook.