A couple months ago, I received a mysterious summons with strict instructions for secrecy. “There is no Potato Club,” it read. I will not divulge the identities of the guests or the hostess here.
We were invited for an evening of starchy revelry among women, a potluck to which we’d each bring a topping for the pile of baked potatoes our hostess provided. (There was also mention of “dark potato rituals” I dare not describe in detail except to say they involved light crafting.) I only break the sandy potato skin of secrecy because it’s too great an idea to keep underground.
It’s weird out there. We could all use an evening with our guards down, gathering and eating with friends to sigh into the steam of a hot meal, tell stories, share worries and snort laughing. But money is tight for too many of us and so is time, particularly during the holiday season. Even cooking a simple meal for a few friends can seem like a mythical trial. Listen, I bought doughnuts to bring to my last potluck. We are all struggling.
It was this conundrum — desperately needing to recharge together and having no time or budget to do so — that our hostess recognized. A potato party, she said, is wonderfully low stakes and low prep, easily accommodating vegetarians, vegans and the gluten-free. It feels doable, not daunting, for both the host and guest.
As host, you get a sack of potatoes, scrub them and puncture them all over with a fork — this is extremely therapeutic. Oil, salt and place them on foil or parchment on a baking pan. Bake them in a 400 F oven for 45 minutes to 1 hour, depending on size (a fork should slide easily in and out when they’re done).
Your guests will handle the trimmings, bringing toppings according to their tastes, time, budget, dietary restrictions and desire to flex on the crowd. Shredded cheddar? Perfect. Fancy chèvre? Oui. A bowl of freshly chopped scallions or a pot of homemade chili — both work. The bespoke butter you never splurge on or the herbed salt you were gifted? Bring it. There are no rules in Potato Club. (Except the one I’m breaking right now, for which I expect retribution will be swift and salty.)
I had thoughts about curry but the day got away from me. In the end, I spooned horseradish and a few pinches of salt into a tub of mascarpone for a dollop of creaminess with a faint bite. When I arrived, the table was already crowded with salsa, cheeses, chopped bacon and a pot filled with hot baked potatoes. There were also bowls of fragrant chimichurri and toum, a sharp Lebanese garlic sauce, neither of which I would have considered for a baked potato before; both were delightful. A smaller pot held mashed cauliflower for the potato averse, a minority unknown to me until that moment. (*Bows head in silent reflection.)
Circling the table to sprinkle and schmear our potatoes was cheerful chaos and an ice breaker for strangers. Scattered across couches, chairs and floor cushions, we dug into the plates on our laps, comparing notes and considering a second trip to the buffet of toppings. Easy, then, to fall into little pockets of conversation and be pulled into a story with the rest of the room.
Your friends don’t need an event, they just want to see you. And in chilly, damp weather, they want to enjoy something hearty and warm with the pleasure of your company. When they offer to help clean up, do everyone a favor and accept. Letting guests carry in a few plates and round up stray glasses will make the evening that much easier for you and make the prospect of hosting the next one less intimidating to someone else. Send the leftovers home with your friends or drop the extra off with someone who could use them.
Midway through the evening, we began speculating about possible variations on Potato Club. What about sweet potatoes? Tots? Fries? Hashbrowns? A mashed potato night? Does potato bread count? The options, like the range of that subterranean queen the potato, seem limitless.
I could tell you what the plan is for the next meeting but I’ve already said too much.
Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the managing editor at the Journal. Reach her at (707) 442-1400 ext. 106 or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Bluesky @JFumikoCahill.
This article appears in An Absence of Abalone.