Post-Battle Sausages and Mash

Ok first. I think I need to give serious props to the template designer at Avery office supplies because he (or she but I have a feeling he) is singlehandedly responsible for a large chunk of my psychological wellbeing. Specifically, my ability, because of him, to create sheets of labels that I can then stick obsessively on things. Ordered, clean, identical labels. Neat labels. You see where I'm going here with the psychological wellbeing.

I bring this up because yesterday I spent probably a bit too much time reconstructing a shoe box so that it had partitions down the middle, then lining the entire thing with parchment paper, then packing excess cookies in it, then engineering an easily-liftable flap for it, then putting a FRESHLY PRINTED Beetle Bakery label on the front.

Because you see, I made Beetle Bakery labels, you guys. And they are so amazing. 

CHECK. IT. OUT.
RIGHT?!?!? Just looking at them makes me calm. 

Behold the box of deliciousness:

Partitionnnnssssss. Partitions are also things that make me happy. 

And here is the easily-liftable cover. Which opens and reattaches with a tinfoil clasp.
WHO SAYS ENGLISH MAJORS CAN'T DO ENGINEERING AND CONSTRUCTION, HUH? 

Anyway, those went to my Lovely Librarians and hopefully they are enjoying. You guys, I'm sorry about the slightly darker-than-maybe-they-should-be bottoms of the Mudslide cookies. Next time I make them I will take my own note about the cooking time. Proms.

All in all it was a calm, on and off rainy Thursday afternoon of Beetle Bakery deliveries, folding the seventy thousand sports bras I own, and watching an episode of Ke$ha: My Crazy Beautiful Life (HUSH it's cute and funny and I love Ke$ha and the ridiculous stupid dancing I can do to her songs plus she wears body glitter and as someone who used to wear a lot of that I feel a special kinship) I was enjoying listening to the rain fall outside and already anticipating the sheepdog day of awesomeness on Saturday (which is, yessss, tomorrow).

So I look out the dining room window all zenned out and what do I see? CFH! Cat From Hell! Fat, jerkface cat sitting in our yard STARING at me through the window. What is WITH HIM? Why can't he stare creepily at things in his own yard?

Mum was right outside on the terrace and I yelled to her but she had her headphones on and was fighting with the Peony stakes (We remembered this year you guys! It only took 16 YEARS of not putting them up!) so I banged REALLY HARD on the window and she looked up and saw me doing what I considered to be a clear sign language version of "Mummy dearest that cat from hell is sitting in the yard under the maple tree please may I draw your attention to it?" But which apparently looked a little different from the other end. Having no idea what I was saying and yelling back through the window "Do you think I can understand that? Hang on." she looked down to find her headphone off switch.

At which point, fueled by battle rage, a hand that is STILL lacerated, and fight-to-the-death-protectionist sensibilities for my own cats, I threw down the load of dishtowels I was holding and raced outside.

You guys, I really need to work on putting on something that is not leggings and legwarmers before appearing in public.

I launched myself out the door, wearing the above and also LL Bean shearling slippers, promptly stepped on a Peony stake which flipped up an impaled me in the shin, ignored the pain because I am a Warrior Beetle, and landed, yelling gutturally, in the middle of the driveway. CFH, possibly slightly nonplussed by this, took off towards the south wall. I couldn't follow on foot because slippers + lawn=no but Mum, in workout spandex and running shoes, could. Dear reader, she rose to the occasion magnificently. She raced across the lawn, trailing headphones, gesticulating wildly. CFH, definitely properly nonplussed at this point, disappeared over the stone wall. Hopefully never to be seen again. But hear this, CFH: I will be ready next time.

So you know how Celtic and Spartan soldiers would always chow down on mutton and, I don't know, ox, after a battle? Something about the adrenaline, blah blah, you're super hungry after you've faced death and you proceed to stuff your face.

Well.

We both came back inside and Mum says "I'm starving." and I say "Holy crap I am too." and then I realise that we haven't done the weekly shop yet and, unless cookies have been very recently recategorised as a food group, dinner is going to be a bit of a slap up operation.

HOWEVER, DEAR READER. I FOUND POTATOES.

I found potatoes, and fresh rosemary, and veggie sausage, and broccoli.

And after our battle experience, and considering the fact that it was still raining outside, what better dinner, really, could there be than. . . . wait for it . . .

POST BATTLE SAUSAGES AND MASH

All of you who, like me, went to either England, Scotland, or Ireland for University or year abroad no doubt breathed a sigh of nostalgia just now. My first sausages and mash was in a pub in Dublin and it was fantastic. Incidentally my first Spotted Dick was at Hall at Oxford, and I really think that's just the Brit's way of being ridiculous because it's just a very nice, warm, Oatmeal Raisin Custard. You guys just call it that to watch non-Brits squirm. I'm convinced of this.

Even adding potatoes to a blog post, for example.
SO MUCH BETTER NOW. 

Anyway. Sausages and Mash.

The basic equation for this, and for life in general, actually, is that Potatoes added to ANYTHING make it better. Potatoes are never NOT a good idea. Add potatoes whenever possible. So, continuing.

• 1 package veggie sausages (or proper sausages, whatever you like)
• 2 heads broccoli, floret-ed
• 6 medium potatoes, cut into rough chunks
• fresh rosemary
• olive oil
• sea salt

Steam the potatoes first, skins and all, and they take a little while so you can put them on and then do all your other prep whilst they do their thing.

Heat the olive oil in a pan until smoking and add the broccoli florets. After a few minutes add the rosemary. After a few minutes more add the sausages. 

Thus the mashing process. The trick is not to eat as you mash.
It's harder than it sounds. 

Note: this is for veggie sausages, which do not need to be "cooked" in the meat sense of the word. you just need to brown them. If you are using proper sausages obviously adjust accordingly and please do not die of e-coli poisoning. Follow cooking instructions, etc.

Cook, stirring frequently, adding more olive oil as needed, until the broccoli and sausages are brown and the broccoli is pierce-able with a fork.



When the potatoes are tender bordering on mushy, drain and put into a large bowl. Using a wide hand masher, just give them a good smash. Keep some lumps though because I think mashed potatoes should a. have skins and b. be rough and lumpy and rustic. As you are mashing, mix in some more rosemary, salt, and a little olive oil and keep mashing until it's all combined. Just think how awesome your triceps will look after this.

Beetle Mashed Potatoes. I suddenly am SO GLAD that there are more of these in the fridge. 

In the traditional manner, sausages should be served atop a bed of mashed potatoes. I put the broccoli a little to the side.

What ELSE are you supposed to eat after a day of label-making, cat rescue, and Ke$ha?
Exactly. 

So TOMORROW, dear reader, we are getting up early, donning tweed and wellies, and going SHEEPDOGGING I'M SO EXCITED. But I will tell you all about it. I promise. I may die of happiness. 

I also told Mum that because of that, and because Brioche, insanely, needs 15 hours (!!) to rise that she could have sheepdogs or Brioche. Guess what she chose. 

So now I just need to figure out another appropriately adoring breakfast pastry. One that says "Happy Mother's Day I love you even though you made me reprogram your speed dial for twenty minutes yesterday so that you could call me even though we live in the same house."