Sunday, the Book, and the Potatoes That Needed a Day to Think
There are many ways people decide to cook again. Some buy new knives. Some watch too many videos. Some declare a health goal and announce it loudly to no one in particular.
We chose a book.
Not just any book, but The New Good Housekeeping Cookbook, published in 1963 by Harcourt, Brace & World, edited by Dorothy B. Marsh, and heavy enough to qualify as both a culinary reference and a defensive instrument. It smells faintly of old paper and confidence. The kind of confidence that assumes you will read the instructions first.
Every Sunday, my wife and I are going to cook from it.
Not every recipe. That would be reckless. Also impractical, since my wife does not eat meat, though she does not claim the word vegetarian as an identity badge. She simply does not eat meat, which is different. So this will be a selective relationship. A respectful one. We will choose carefully, adapt where necessary, and accept that mid-century America assumed bacon fat was a moral good.
Why this book?
Because this was the book I cooked from as a kid.
I was a latchkey kid, which meant dinner was not a philosophical exercise. It was a task. One of my chores was to cook for the family, and this book lived on the counter like a supervisor. My meatballs came from it. I learned ratios from it, not by name, but by repetition. I learned that food did not arrive assembled. Someone had to do something to it first.
This book predates convenience as a default. It assumes you own time, not devices. It assumes you know what a saucepan is for. It assumes leftovers are not a failure but a plan. The microwave does not exist yet. Prepackaged meals are still suspicious. Cooking is not framed as an expression. It is framed as competence.
That is why it matters now.
So we began, appropriately, in Susan’s section. The part of the book is designed for teenagers. Quick recipes. Simple logic. No theatrics. A gentle re-entry ramp for people who may have forgotten that words like “prepare” often mean more than five minutes of effort.
The recipe we chose required cooked potatoes, grated.
This is where I relearned something the hard way.
Cooked potatoes do not mean potatoes you cook right now.
They mean potatoes you cooked yesterday.
They mean potatoes that have cooled, rested, and settled into themselves. The starch needs time to stabilize. If you grate a hot potato, you do not get structure. You get collapse. You get a texture that suggests regret.
I did not know this.
I learned it.
I learned it because this book assumes you know things. It does not hold your hand. It does not explain why. It simply states the condition and waits to see if you respect it. This is how cooking used to be taught. Quietly. With consequences.
We modified the recipe in two ways.
First, we used smoked paprika instead of bacon fat. The goal was not substitution for its own sake, but intention. We wanted the smokiness without the meat, and smoked paprika carries that history well. It does not pretend to be bacon. It does its own work.
Second, we added red and yellow peppers. Not because the recipe asked for them, but because color matters, and mid-century beige does not have to be law. They added sweetness, contrast, and a small act of rebellion.
Otherwise, we followed the recipe.
Mostly.
Our pan was not the right size. This is a recurring theme in adulthood. As a result, the hash browns did not fold or cut neatly. They did not become a composed object. They were more chaotic than that. Crispy here. Soft there. A little wild.
They were also excellent.
That felt important.
The point of this project is not to recreate a museum exhibit. It is to return to a way of cooking that assumes attention, patience, and error. Cooking food requires you to show up on time and be prepared. To laugh a little when you realize you did not.
This is us relearning how to cook again, without shortcuts, and without pretending we remember everything we once knew.
This is also about Sundays and time together.
Choosing one recipe. Turning the page together. Accepting that sometimes the lesson comes before the meal. Accepting that sometimes the meal is better because of it.
The book will keep us honest. The kitchen will keep us humble. And the food, when it works, will remind us why we started.
Next Sunday, we turn the page again.
Hashed Brown Potatoes
From Susan’s section, The New Good Housekeeping Cookbook (1963)
Ingredients
4 medium potatoes, peeled, cooked, and chilled
1 tablespoon grated onion
1 teaspoon salt
Dash of pepper
3 tablespoons butter or margarine
3 tablespoons bacon fat
Method
Using a medium grater, grate potatoes onto wax paper until you have about 4 cups. With the same grater, grate the onion. Toss potatoes and onion together with salt and pepper.
In a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat, heat butter with bacon fat. Add potatoes, pressing them down firmly with a turner and shaping into a circle, leaving about 1/2 inch of fat visible around the edge.
Sauté about 20 minutes, or until crisp and browned on the underside. After 12 to 15 minutes, lift the edge to test for browning.
When potatoes are golden on the bottom, hold the skillet with one hand. With the turner, cut through the potatoes from the far edge to the center. Fold the two cut quarters, one at a time, toward you onto the uncut half.
Carefully run the turner under the potatoes so they will slide easily from the skillet. Then, holding the skillet firmly, transfer the potatoes to a platter, uncut side up.
Makes 4 servings.
Notes From Our Kitchen
We substituted smoked paprika for the bacon fat to achieve smokiness without meat.
We added diced red and yellow peppers for color and sweetness.
Our pan was slightly undersized, which resulted in less structure and more irregular browning. The texture was different, but the flavor held.
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