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St. Paddy's Day fare feeds four (two less if you invite Big Ken)

By Dave Ross

When March arrives it is met with great enthusiasm at our house. March means the beginning of the end of winter, not a big deal in the Valley but a real occasion in Minnesota and one of my favorite holidays, St. Patrick’s Day.

I have not been to Ireland but have had the good fortune to travel to both England and Scotland.

Having seen many travelogs, I am struck by the similarities of the three cultures.

One of my favorites is the traditional pub. In America we have saloons, taverns and bars that serve as places to stop, enjoy a drink and hopefully leave to go home.

In England the neighborhood pub serves as an extension of the home. It is a place where people go to meet friends and family, talk, play games and spend the evening.

On a business trip Hank and I took a few years ago, we had a chance to go “pub crawling” in London. We were there with a large group from the states, and after one of the planned meetings a group of us decided to visit the neighborhood pub.

Our group consisted of seven people. The first was a man named Frank. He stood about 6 feet 2 and weighed about 220.

The next was a couple from Maryland, “Big Ken” and his wife. Big Ken stood 6 feet 6 and weighed in between 350 and 400.

The next gentleman and his wife hailed from New Jersey, and I don’t remember their names. I do, however, remember he stood 6 foot 8 and weighed about 270. He was an excavator by trade and specialized in cemetery work.

The last of the group were Hank and myself. For those of you who don’t know me, let’s just say I fit into this group real well.

After leaving the hotel and walking a couple of blocks, we came to a neighborhood pub. It was filled with Brits of all ages, enjoying the evening.

Standing in the door Frank spotted an area toward the back that looked large enough to accommodate our group.

We began our procession, single file, through the crowd: Frank, followed by Big Ken and his wife, followed by the gravedigger and his bride, followed by Hank and I in last position.

With a mantra of apologies we worked our way through the crowd.

As I clared the last group of locals, I felt a tug on my coat sleeve.

Turning to see what the person wanted I was greeted by a young Brit who said, “Do you mind a question?”

I said I didn’t, and he followed with, “What the hell are they feeding you Yanks?”

With that as the icebreaker, I have real affection for the traditional British pub.

One of my favorite pub foods is the authentic Shepherds Pie. Please don’t confuse this with the American version that consists of unidentifiable leftovers, topped with instant mashed potatoes. There is no substitute for the real thing.

Give it a try for St. Paddy’s Day.

Sherherds Pie

2 tbls. Butter

1 onion, chopped fine

1½ lb. Lean ground beef

1 cup chopped mushrooms

2/3 cup beef stock

1 tbls. Tomato paste

2/3 cup red wine

1½ tsp. Dried tarragon

Salt & pepper to taste

Topping

2 large potatoes

3 tbls. Butter

2 large cloves garlic, peeled

2 eggs, separated

Brown the beef and onions in the butter. Add the mushrooms, stock, wine, tomato paste and tarragon. Simmer gently for about 25 minutes, stirring occasionally until the liquid has reduced and the sauce thickened.

Taste and season with salt and pepper. If you add the salt before you cook the mixture, you stand a good chance of oversalting.

While the mixture cooks, peel and cube the potatoes. Cook potatoes and garlic in salted water until tender. When the potatoes are cooked, drain and mash with the garlic.

Add the butter and egg yolks. Season with salt and pepper.

In a clean bowl beat the eggwhites to the stiff-peak stage. Fold the beaten whites into the potatoes.

Place the meat mixture in an oven-proof dish and top with the potatoes. Bake in a 400-degree oven until hot and the potatoes are well browned.

This recipe will feed four, or just me and Big Ken.

Until next time

May your glass be ever full,

May the roof over your head be always strong,

And may you be in Heaven, a half hour before the devil knows you’re gone.

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