Bubble and Squeak

The kitchen is cold. The fridge is full of the kind of things that don't look like a meal yet: half a pan of roast potatoes from last night, a bowl of cabbage that nobody quite finished, a few sprouts going soft at the edges. This is where bubble and squeak begins. Not with a plan, but with a rummage.

The name comes from the sound it makes in the pan, or so the story goes. I've never been entirely convinced, but I like the idea that a dish can be named for its noise rather than its ingredients. What matters is the crust. That golden, slightly shattered underside that forms when you press the mixture into hot butter and leave it alone long enough to do its work. The temptation is to fiddle with it. Don't. Walk away. Make the tea. Come back when you can smell it.

I eat this on Boxing Day morning, standing at the counter in a cold kitchen with the heating not yet on and the remnants of yesterday's dinner becoming today's breakfast. But it's good on any morning when the fridge needs clearing and something warm and crisp would set the day right. A fried egg on top, the yolk still soft enough to break into the potatoes. Brown sauce if you're that way inclined. I am.

A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Use whatever greens you have. The potatoes can be roasted, boiled, mashed, it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the hot pan and the patience to let it crisp. We're only making breakfast.