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What’s Cookin’ Wednesday: Funeral Potatoes

Other What’s Cookin’ Wednesdays

I know, I know.  Funeral potatoes.  Everyone is a critic or they make the best or their Grandma does or they hate them or they don’t do cornflakes on top.  Is there any subject more divided? (sweet potatoes, potentially.)  But these funeral potatoes are made with cream of chicken soup. I don’t do cream of chicken soup. I only buy the stuff twice a year, to make funeral potatoes.

They come from my husband’s Grandma Webster who doesn’t cook but these are her specialty.  They have graced every Bell Easter and Christmas table.  They are cheesy and creamy and not in the least bit healthy, but they are the only ones we make.  And what’s more?  They are good the second day and the third and on and on, until they are gone.

First, get a two pound bag of cubed potatoes. I made the mistake of getting shredded potatoes once and that was no good.  Shredded need not apply.  Make fork holes all over the bag and microwave them for 15 minutes. Now, I am sure this breaks all kinds of BPA rules but twice a year probably won’t kill anyone.  Probably.

After they’re microwaved, melt a stick of butter with a tablespoon or two of minced onion.  Now, I don’t know why this makes them so much better, but it does.  (And it’s the only way my mother in law eats onions.)  Get out your biggest bowl, the mega bowl that you mix bread in.  Put the potatoes, onion butter and mix it around.  Then add two cans of cream of chicken soup and two cups sour cream.  Mix, mix, mix.  Dump it into a 9 by 13 pan.  You can grease if you like, but with all that butter, you’re probably good.  Now, cheese and lots of it.  All over the top.  And cook it for 30 minutes at 350 or until it’s bubbling.

Not only am I super excited to make these (they make ahead great too) but Blake loves them.  They bring him back to all kinds of good childhood places where you didn’t worry about trans fats or BPAs.  And all you thought about was picking peaches from your Grandmother’s tree and eating them until you were sticky with juices.  And riding bikes with your cousins and old Disney movie marathons (Escape from Witch Moutain. Hello,

creepy).  And his own mother making these and not minding me calling for the recipe multiple times. I have since memorized it (thanks for your patience, Candy.)  These funeral potatoes mean Spring and ham and deviled eggs.  They mean memories.


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