Russian Potatoes

Brandon made breakfast on Saturday — pancakes from a box, as is the custom — and I drank my coffee and let him. The week was a fall week, the kind where the light through the kitchen window arrives at a particular angle and the freezer hums in a different register depending on the temperature in the garage. I made notes in my prep notebook on Sunday afternoon, the way I always do: meal name, ingredient list, cost per serving, prep time, freezer instructions. Twenty-eight bags. Two hours and eleven minutes. A little slow this week, by my standards, but Brandon was helping and the conversation was good, and I have learned, slowly and against my own grain, that the conversation is sometimes the point and the time is sometimes a courtesy I extend to my husband for being willing to chop onions on a Sunday afternoon.

The recipe of the week was the funeral potatoes, which I have made some specific number of times in my life and have refined to a system that I now hand to other people in printed form. The version I made this week fed eight, cost under fifteen dollars, and required twenty-six minutes of active prep, which is within my requirements and not a coincidence. The vacuum sealer is the most important small appliance in this house and I will die on this hill. I have stopped explaining the freezer-meal philosophy to people who already follow my work, and I have stopped apologizing for it to people who do not. The philosophy is simple: tomorrow is coming whether you are ready or not. You can either be ready or not. I pick ready.

The children are doing what they do, which is the central report of every week of my adult life. Ethan, 20, is in the Philippines on his mission. He sends emails on Mondays. I read them on Mondays. The day is now structured around his email. Olivia is 18, at BYU studying elementary education — the path she chose at age seven and has not deviated from once. Mason, 15, is in Brazil on his mission. His weekly emails are short and full of jokes. He does not write much about the work. He writes about the food. Lily is 14, in high school, asking the kind of questions in Sunday School that make the teachers uncomfortable, which I find difficult and also, secretly, admirable. Noah is 11, the comedian, the performer — the kid who does an impression of my disappointed face in front of company, and gets away with it. That is the family report. I do not have a system for these reports. I just listen and remember and call back when I said I would call back, which is most of the time and not all of the time, and the difference between most and all is the territory of motherhood.

Grace would have been 9. I do not let myself imagine the alternate version. I keep her in the facts. I do not write about her every week. I do not avoid her either. She is in the kitchen the way the kitchen is in the kitchen — woven into the structure, not announcing herself, present. The photograph above the stove is the only one of her smiling, and it has watched me batch-prep more freezer meals than I can count, and I have stopped feeling strange about the parasocial relationship I have with a four-month-old who has been gone for years. She is my daughter. The photograph is what I have. I look. I keep cooking.

Brandon is asleep on the couch. The dishwasher is running. The kitchen is clean. That is what counts as victory in a long marriage.

The batch this week was the potato dish I keep in rotation under a slightly different name depending on who’s asking — the one that freezes clean, reheats without losing texture, and costs almost nothing per serving when you buy in bulk. Russian Potatoes is what the recipe is called, and it is what I made, twenty-eight portions, two hours and change, Brandon chopping onions beside me while we talked about things I will not summarize here because the conversation was for us. This is the recipe. It is what I have refined and printed and handed to other people. It is what I make when I want to be ready.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

3 lbs russet potatoes, peeled and diced into 3/4-inch cubes
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried dill
1 cup sour cream
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped (optional garnish)

Instructions

Parboil the potatoes. Place diced potatoes in a large pot, cover with cold salted water, and bring to a boil. Cook 8–10 minutes until just fork-tender but not falling apart. Drain and set aside.
Sauté the aromatics. In a large oven-safe skillet or Dutch oven, melt butter with olive oil over medium heat. Add onion and cook 5–6 minutes until softened and translucent. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more.
Season and combine. Add the drained potatoes to the skillet. Sprinkle with paprika, smoked paprika, dill, salt, and pepper. Stir gently to coat, letting the potatoes pick up color on the bottom, about 4–5 minutes.
Add the dairy. Remove from heat. Fold in sour cream until the potatoes are evenly coated. Taste and adjust salt.
Top and bake. Preheat oven to 375°F. Spread mixture evenly in the skillet or transfer to a greased 9x13 baking dish. Scatter shredded cheddar over the top. Bake uncovered 20–25 minutes until the cheese is melted and beginning to brown at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let sit 5 minutes before serving. Garnish with fresh parsley if using.
To freeze. Assemble through the sour cream step, portion into freezer bags or containers before adding cheese, and freeze flat. To bake from frozen: thaw overnight in the refrigerator, top with cheese, and bake at 375°F for 30–35 minutes.

Nutrition (per serving)

Russian Potatoes — The One I’ve Made More Times Than I Can Count