Melting Roasted Potatoes

Wednesday is our anniversary. October 26, 1991. Twenty-five years. Connie and I got married six weeks after I walked out of that mine, in the Pentecostal church in Evarts, with Betty's fried chicken at the reception and Earl shaking my hand and saying "You came out. That's all that matters." Twenty-five years of loving a woman who is smarter than me, tougher than me, and more patient than any human being has a right to be.

I'm not good at romance. I want to be clear about that. I am a forty-eight-year-old former coal miner with a bad back and a vocabulary that tops out at about three romantic words, two of which are "That'll do." Connie has spent twenty-five years married to a man who communicates love through pork chops and presence rather than words and flowers. She deserves better. She says she doesn't want better. I don't fully believe her, but I've learned not to argue with Connie about what Connie wants, because Connie knows what Connie wants, and if she says she wants me, then she wants me, and the best I can do is be worth wanting.

For the anniversary dinner, I'm making steak. Not just steak — the best steak I can find. I went to the butcher at the Lexington Farmers Market, not Kroger, because twenty-five years deserves a butcher. I bought two bone-in ribeyes, an inch and a half thick, well-marbled, dry-aged. They cost more than I want to admit. Connie doesn't know about the cost. She doesn't need to know. Some things are between a man and his butcher.

The method: bring the steaks to room temperature, at least thirty minutes out of the fridge. Season them with salt and pepper — just salt and pepper, nothing else. A steak this good doesn't need a rub or a marinade or any of the things people do to compensate for inferior meat. Heat the cast iron skillet until it's smoking — literally smoking, the kind of hot that sets off the smoke detector, which mine did, and Clay came running downstairs thinking the house was on fire and I told him it was just love.

Sear the steaks three minutes per side for a hard crust. Then add butter — a lot of butter, like three tablespoons — and whole garlic cloves and a sprig of rosemary from the garden. Tilt the pan and baste the steaks with the foaming butter, over and over, for about two minutes. Then into the oven at 400 for six minutes for medium-rare. Rest for ten minutes. That's it. The steak should have a dark, salty crust and a pink, juicy interior and it should taste like beef and butter and twenty-five years of not giving up on each other.

I served it with roasted asparagus and mashed potatoes and a bottle of red wine that the guy at the wine shop recommended. Connie wore a dress, which she doesn't do often, and I wore a clean shirt, which I do less often. We ate at the kitchen table with candles, actual candles, which I found in the junk drawer where Connie keeps them for power outages. Clay was conveniently at Tyler's house. It was just us. The steak was perfect. The wine was good. Connie said "That'll do" and I said "That'll do" and we meant the same thing and it was more than enough.

Twenty-five years. I don't know how to say what that means. I'll say this: the mine collapse taught me that time is not guaranteed, and Connie taught me that time spent with the right person is the only time that counts. Everything else is just waiting.

The steak was the centerpiece, but Connie’s plate needed something that could hold its own beside it — something that felt as deliberate and unhurried as the rest of that dinner. Mashed potatoes were the obvious call, but I wanted something with a little more intention to it, edges that crisped up in the oven while the insides went soft and giving. Melting roasted potatoes are exactly that: simple enough that a man with a three-word romantic vocabulary can pull them off, and good enough that no one asks for anything else.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch rounds
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 tablespoon olive oil
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
4 cloves garlic, smashed
3/4 cup chicken broth (or vegetable broth)
2 sprigs fresh thyme (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Heat oven to 500°F (or as high as your oven will go, at least 475°F). Place a rimmed baking sheet in the oven while it preheats — you want it screaming hot before the potatoes hit it.
Season the potatoes. Toss the potato rounds in the melted butter and olive oil. Season generously with salt and pepper and toss again to coat evenly.
First roast. Carefully remove the hot baking sheet from the oven. Arrange the potato rounds in a single layer — they should sizzle when they hit the pan. Roast for 15 minutes until the bottoms are deeply golden and beginning to crisp.
Flip and add broth. Flip each potato round. Scatter the smashed garlic cloves and thyme over the pan, then carefully pour the broth around (not over) the potatoes. Return to the oven and roast another 15 minutes.
Final roast. Flip the potatoes one more time. Roast a final 10–15 minutes, until the broth has mostly absorbed, the edges are caramelized and crisp, and the centers are completely tender when pierced with a fork.
Rest and serve. Transfer to a serving platter, spoon any pan drippings over the top, and serve immediately alongside your main course.

Nutrition (per serving)

Melting Roasted Potatoes — The Side Dish That Made Our Anniversary Dinner Complete