Christmas Letter 2020: How to Make a Shepherd's Pie

I am a terrible cook. I’m completely unimaginative, have no innate sense of balance between sweet, sour, salt, and savory, and I don’t know how to make a basic cream sauce. I keep my can opener on the ready. Despite this ineptitude, night after night, I put a meal on the table for my family. In complete transparency, I have a rotation of eight to ten passable dishes that my family politely survives from week to week. They are always so forgiving of me.

 In 2020, while many adventurous people took up new hobbies to nourish their ennui, I thought perhaps I would channel my inner Julia Child, tie that apron around my waist with a tight bow of determination, and surprise my family with some culinary fireworks. But, alas, I did not. Instead, I stuck to what I knew, which proved far more comforting in a tumultuous year.

 There’s an old writer’s adage that says: write about what you know. This year’s Christmas letter is about this one thing I know. I know how to make a shepherd’s pie. Here’s the recipe, tailored for 2020.

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 First, you peel the potatoes, which means brutally slicing away that layer that protects the potato from the world and leaves it absolutely raw. The skin may be dirty or clean, wrinkled or smooth; there’s no discrimination in 2020. Under the skin, potatoes, like people, are basically the same. Do this efficiently and without any sensitivity about how the potato feels. You need seven or eight potatoes, more or less. Nobody’s counting.

 Second, you dice the peeled potatoes. What was once whole, you chop up into imperfect, irregular cubes. These potatoes will never be intact again. Nothing is going back to the way it was before. Once cubed, disinterestedly slide those chunks off the cutting board into a cauldron of unforgiving boiling water. Let nature do its thing: scald, shock, roil, soften, sigh fumes of finality.

 While the pot boils, brown two pounds of ground meat. I’m Californian born and bred, so I use ground turkey. I smile as I write this because my Irish husband prefers ground beef, for sure. Much of how we perceive the world depends on the place we first called home. For my sake, he tolerates the insipid white meat. Much of how we tolerate the world depends on the place we eventually call home.

 Browning takes a few minutes, which gives you time to dice up an onion. Oh, that beautiful cathartic onion. When the onion vapors hit your lachrymal glands, just let the tears fall; don’t try to stop them. Just weep unashamedly and blame it on the onion. You were trying to be brave, I know. Everything seems broken, I know. You lost so much, I know. Just cry it out. Onion chopping purifies the soul.

 After the meat browns, drain it and put it back in the dry pan. Here’s where Supersecret Ingredient #1 comes in: the seasonings. My favorites are the four sisters: mercy, resilience, self-forgiveness, and compassion. How much of each? Hmm, that really depends on the day. Some days I need more resilience, other days, more self-forgiveness. I just keep shaking those seemingly bottomless spice bottles over the meat until my heart is happy. Stir that up over low heat.

 Now add the vegetables to the meat: the onion you wept over, as well as a can of peas & carrots, and a can of chopped mushrooms. If you want to use fresh vegetables, by all means, be my guest. But working mamas ain’t got time for that. So, if you use fresh veggies, be sure to take a pic and post on Pinterest to impress somebody. Just be aware that NO ONE won the trophy for Mom of the Year, 2020.

 After you mix up the meat and veggies, it’s time for Supersecret Ingredient #2: the Bisto. Bisto is a McKeagney-family-favorite gravy powder from Ireland that has been around for about 100 years, literally. My mother-in-law used it, quite generously in fact, because her mother-in-law did. Take two heaping tablespoons of the Bisto powder (and when I say tablespoon, I mean your regular morning cereal spoon, not an actual measuring tablespoon because I haven’t seen one of those since the early 00s) and mix into a tall pint glass of cold water; stir it up until it dissolves. Then pour it tenderly over the meat mixture. Fold that in. Keep going, stir again. Love it up, stir again. Cover the pan, keep it on low, let it sit. Practice patience. It’s starting to smell like the place you call home.

 The potatoes are fully boiled now, so you can drain those puppies and mash the bloody hell out of ‘em. Mash them with all the frustration over every conceivable ounce of stupidity you endured this year. Mash them vigorously and self-righteously. Pour in a bit of milk (how much? hmm, a few drams and a smidgen) and some butter or margarine (how much? hmm, like two or three tablespoons – see above for definition of tablespoon). Keep stirring and mashing until you made a cumulous cloudy loveliness that reminds you of a summer afternoon’s walk along the Tempo River. You may start to feel better now, thinking about that place you call home.

 Pour the meat mixture into a 9x12 pan and smooth out evenly. (Oops, I should have told you to grease the pan first. Never mind; it’ll probably be fine.) Then spread the mashed potatoes over the top. This part is a little tricky. It takes a medieval mason-like skill to spread it evenly, but after this year, you have new appreciation for your well-washed hands. You feel a little more provincial than before, a little more apt. This action satisfies that yearning for simpler times. The beauty here is that those potatoes that you skinned raw now serve as a loving, protective blanket over everything. Sometimes we must be stripped bare to find the grace to comfort others.

 With impressive finesse (you fake the finesse, of course), sprinkle a generous layer of shredded cheese over the mashed potatoes. Put the shepherd’s pie in the oven. (Oops, I should have told you to preheat the oven first. Now you have to wait. Practice patience.) Then bake for 20 minutes.

 While the shepherd’s pie bakes, you can wash the pots and pans and set the table for the people you love: your little nuclear family. Maybe call down Ronan to take out the garbage. Ask Therese to replenish the napkins. Text Brian to see if he’s coming home from work in time for dinner. Pop your head into the workshop to call in Gabriel.

 Together, we gather. We hold hands around the table to say grace. We sigh deeply… it’s been a really, really long day. We eat with verve: heartily, messily, mightily. This is the place we call home. This is the meal we call comfort. This is the season we call holy.

 This Christmas, we wish you, simply, a warm, home-cooked meal

that nourishes your need, blankets your brokenness, and seasons your soul.

Merry Christmas 2020 from the McKeagneys

 You know, instead of making a shepherd’s pie on your own, why don’t you just come over? We’re happy to share; there’s plenty to go around. You’re always very welcome here.