DepressionLAWL

This zippy, bacony delight is my hands-down favorite potato salad recipe. My love for potato salad goes back to...forever.  As a kid I loved the creamy, mustardy rendition spiked with hard boiled egg and pickle relish, ubiquitous at every Minnesota barbeque and picnic. Then I grew up, moved to the city to attend the U of M, and discovered the wonder of the Dijon Potato Salad we made at Joe's Market, my part-time college job. It was basically the same salad as the aforementioned version from my childhood, only made with...wait for it...Dijon mustard. Whoooah. To a 20-year-old in the mid-nineties, that potato salad was downright FANCY.  A few years after that, I discovered the version at Daytons (now Macy's) Marketplace with its skin-on potatoes, sour cream dressing and fresh rosemary.  By that point I felt like I'd reached potato salad Nirvana. (Is that even a thing?)  But I wasn't even close. 

My 93-year-old Grandpa George has passed away, leaving behind many happy memories. Grandpa and I shared a love of delicious food. As I wrote this eulogy which I said yesterday at his funeral mass, I was inspired by the notion that food experiences can bring out the very best in all people.  Grandpa was a fine example of this.

Grandpa was the funniest, liveliest, wittiest, most mischievous, and kindest man I knew. My aunt Claudia put it best: He faced every day not with dread or disappointment, but with the question, What fun stuff is out there to do today? And then he would go and do it.

He had a fierce love for his wife, kids, grand-kids, great-grand-kids, nieces and nephews, in-laws, friends old and new, fishing and golfing, John Wayne movies, the Fighting Irish, the Gophers, the Vikings, greasy Chinese buffets, sinful desserts, bratwurst at Cub Foods, talking with anyone, and laughing his big booming laugh. 

Grandpa and I used to go out to lunch together.  I remember one lunch in particular which was shortly after his wife, my dear Grandma Ruth, passed away.  And that day, Grandpa was moving more slowly than I had ever seen him move.  He was uncharacteristically quiet and reflective. He didn’t seem to converse and understand as well as he used to.  He was a man who seemed beaten down by grief and age.  I walked with him into the restaurant prepared to help him with the menu, help him order, and keep the conversation to simple and timeless topics.  But Grandpa had other ideas. 

When our server came to the table to take our order, Grandpa reached across the table, took my hand, and said to our server with great sincerity,

“Did you know that this young lady and I met on eharmony.com?!” 

How wrong I was to think that just because my Grandpa was aging and grieving the loss of his wife of 61 years, he couldn’t still render a waitress, and for that matter an entire room, speechless with his quick wit and shenanigans.  You see, Grandpa never gave up on life.  He kept it going with a steady diet of bratwurst, bad jokes, and mischief. 

 But Grandpa will also be remembered for his great kindness.  I always admired how polite he was to service staff in restaurants, no matter who they were: Old or young.  Black or white.  Tattooed or clean-cut.  Helpful or short-tempered.  He would always begin his order with a respectful "Please give me."

"Please give me the club sandwich with chips."  "Please give me the roast beef and mashed potatoes." "Please give me three hot dogs with sauerkraut, relish, ketchup, mustard, onions, barbeque, sauce cole slaw, pickle, a large order of fries, and a large Diet Coke." 

“Please give me” was one of the many subtle ways he showed that beneath all his mischief and silliness, he was one of the finest men you could ever know.  He saw the face of God in everyone he met, and he made each person he met feel important.  

Three weeks ago my husband and I visited Grandpa during lunchtime in the dining room at his nursing home.  On that day, it was clear to us that Grandpa was nearing the end of his journey.  He was extremely frail and was just barely aware of his surroundings.  Grandpa and I shared a love of delicious food and it was sad to see that his diet now restricted him to only one sad choice on the menu: a plain piece of meat on a bun. 

A very young and frazzled dietary aide hustled over to our table. “WHAT CAN I GET YOU TODAY?” And when he gave his order, he sat up straight in his chair and looked her in the face.  With great dignity, he said in a quiet, raspy voice: "Please give me the chicken sandwich."   

OMG, do this:

Take 3 med-lg sized squash, doesn’t matter what varieties. Cut away the skins, scrape out the pulp and seeds, and cut into 1-inch chunks. Throw the squash chunks in a single layer on a sheet pan and stick in a 400 degree oven until charred and softened, about 45 minutes.

Then grab 2 large ribs of celery, 1 large carrot, and an onion. Cut them into big chunks, just so they’ll fit in your food processor bowl. Pulse the onion, carrot, and celery together until they are in tiny, tiny, tiny, TINY pieces. Scrape that into a bowl and set aside.

Open and rinse a can of white beans and throw them into the food processor bowl (don’t bother washing it from the previous step, life’s too short.) Remove the squash from the oven and let it cool enough to not burn yourself when you scrape it into the food processor with the beans. Pulse the beans and squash together, gradually adding a little stock or water until the mixture is loose like applesauce. Set aside.

THEN, cut or crumble some snausage into half-inch pieces. I used cheddar bratwurst, but just use your fave. Heat a Tbs of vegetable oil in a Dutch oven or thick-bottomed stock pot over med-high heat. Brown the snausage in that, 5-7 minutes. Remove the snausage and set aside. Remove all but about 1 Tbs of oil from the pot.

THEN, reduce the heat to medium and add the carrot-celery-onion mixture (yes, food snobs, that’s called “pestata,”) along with 1 tsp salt, and mix it all around, scraping up the snausagey brown goodness, about 5 mins.

Then pour in a good 6 cups of stock. I used pork stock, but any stock will do. You could use water to make up the difference if you’re running short on stock. Continue to scrape up the tasty brown bits (yes, food snobs, that is called “fond”) from the bottom of the pot. Bring to a simmer.

Add the squash-bean mixture to the pot. Return to a simmer. If there are some renegade chunks in the soup, immersion blend that sucker until smooth. Add back the snausage (intentionally misspelled because I like how it sounds.) Add salt and pepper to taste.

Serve and enjoy.