Rosemary Mustard Potatoes

While I was born in England, my fierce, wonderful, and very funny Irish mother insisted—repeatedly and with great theatrical emphasis—that I was half Irish. The reality? I’m not English at all. Born there, yes. But genetically? Not a crumpet in sight. My father was Welsh, my mum was from southern Ireland (Eire), which means I am precisely zero parts English and 100% confused. I only discovered this identity twist while going through the joyful labyrinth known as the green card process. I can technically call myself British—thanks, Dad—but not English. Still confused? Join the club. But here’s one thing that never confuses me: the deep-rooted love the Irish (and pretty much all Brits) have for potatoes. They’re practically a food group.

I’m not sure when I stopped eating them. One day, my brain—likely influenced by social media and a kale smoothie—decided that starch was the devil’s carbohydrate. Sure, I still flirted occasionally with a cheeky french fry (or “chip” as my inner child still calls them), but the glorious, versatile potato was benched for far too long.

Growing up in Manchester, “Tea Time” (aka dinner) was an unshakable combo of meat and potatoes, with the occasional overcooked vegetable thrown in for good measure—sometimes so mushy they didn’t require chewing. My lovely, mad Irish mother wasn’t exactly a culinary wizard, but what she could do was make a mean roast potato. Her secret? Meat fat. Possibly a heart attack in the making, but delicious nonetheless.