Comfort has always been a pot of beans simmering on the stove. It’s a favorite childhood memory – my mom’s white beans cooked simply, with or without meat for seasoning. Gloriously overcooked so that beans and broth melded into a creamy slurry of bean goodness, and accompanied by a biscuit fresh from the oven.
Like most Americans, I am a mutt. But having a mother with both parents named Oneal gives me some serious Irish game each St. Patrick’s Day. Not that I ever need an excuse to enjoy potatoes in any form (exception made for tater tots and their dubious character), but the notion of honoring my heritage with green potatoes would likely make my ancestors proud.