Irish Colcannon
Colcannon, The Saison.
Among the many cultural ironies of Irish cuisine is that its most soulful dish, Colcannon, a mingling of mashed potatoes and cabbage or kale, is often served not in the depth of winter but on Halloween.
To encounter Colcannon in its original context is to realize it was never simply sustenance, but a portal. Long before plastic pumpkins and discount candy, October 31st in Ireland was Samhain, the Celtic New Year, when the veil between the living and dead was believed to grow thin. Colcannon was not just eaten—it was read.
Like tea leaves or tarot, Colcannon could tell fortunes. Coins were hidden in its folds, or a thimble, or a rag—tokens that forecasted wealth, spinsterhood, or misfortune, depending on what the spoon unearthed. In some homes, a ring was tucked into the pot: whoever found it would marry within the year. Here, food was not metaphor but medium, and the kitchen doubled as oracle.
What remains remarkable is the dish’s restraint. In an era where holiday fare often tilts toward excess, Colcannon’s ingredients—potatoes, greens, butter, maybe scallions—offer little in the way of indulgence. Yet it manages to feel ceremonial. The greens—often kale, which in ancient Ireland was harvested at this time—carry a bitter note, grounding the airy mash in earth. Butter is stirred in not for luxury but for cohesion. The effect is a kind of edible hearth: warm, blunt, quietly storied.
Its seasonal specificity has largely vanished from public consciousness, particularly outside Ireland. In America, Colcannon is now more likely to appear in March, entangled with a kitschified St. Patrick’s Day menu. Its Halloween roots—pagan, domestic, steeped in oral tradition—are obscured by green beer and supermarket soda bread. But to revive Colcannon in its original context is to restore something richer: a glimpse of a world where food, folklore, and fate were all ladled from the same pot.
Even now, there is something uncanny in the act of preparing it. The mash absorbs heat like memory, the greens turn dark and tender, and as the spoon glides through, one can’t help but imagine the shape of something hidden just beneath the surface.
To eat Colcannon on Halloween is not to indulge in nostalgia, but to participate in a ritual older than the calendar. It is, in its unassuming way, a reckoning—with the season, with the self, with the ghosts at the door.
White cabbage, Brassica Oleracea (ca. 1596–1610) by Anselmus Boëtius de Boodt.
Irish Colcannon
Ingredients
4 Russet potatoes
1 onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon of brown sugar
1/2 cabbage, thinly sliced
1 cup of green onions, sliced
3 cups of milk or cream
4 tablespoons of butter
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Potato ricer
Directions
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
Scrub potatoes, wrap in foil, and puncture with a fork.
Bake the potatoes in a hot oven for about an hour. When done, remove from the oven and allow to cool. When cool, cut the potatoes in half and peel.
In a large pan, add two tablespoons of olive oil and the onion. Season with salt and pepper and sauté the onion over medium heat for 5-10 minutes before sprinkling with the brown sugar.
Allow the onion to caramelize for another 10-15 minutes, stirring frequently.
Add the cabbage and the scallions and continue to sauté for another 5-10 minutes or until the cabbage is wilted and bright green. Season again with salt and pepper.
Add the butter and milk to the pan. Once the butter has melted added the potatoes. Use a potato rice or potato masher to create a smooth consistency.
Stir the potato and vegetables together until combined and heated through. Remove from the heat and serve.
Serves 4.