Only On The Walters Post

From my memories growing up on a dairy farm in Ontario, 1950s–1960s

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You know, back when I was a boy, life on the farm started before the sun and ended when the chores were done, usually well after dark. The kitchen was the heart of our home, and some of my clearest memories are of sitting in the wood box by the wood cook-stove,, watching Laura, the woman who raised me, cook supper while she talked.

The one thing i remember was that she never made cooking feel like a lesson.

Meat didn’t come easy in those days, even for farm families but Laura knew how to make the most of what we had.
“George,” she’d say, “if we add a few potatoes and some vegetables from the garden, we’ll have a meal that fills everyone without wasting anything.”

Her Meat and Potato Patties began as a way to make ends meet, as they were good and they brought everyone to the table.

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Ingredients (makes about 4 patties)

• Three-quarters of a pound of ground beef, whatever we had on hand
• A handful of grated potatoes, white or Yukon Gold worked best
• A small onion, chopped fine
• A couple of tablespoons of green pepper, chopped small (or whatever was plentiful in the garden)
• One egg, beaten
• A pinch of salt
• A splash of oil for frying
• About a cup of tomato juice or thin tomato sauce
• A spoonful of flour
• A little water to mix with the flour

Optional extras Laura sometimes added:

• A small carrot, grated
• A spoonful of breadcrumbs, for firmer patties
• A sprinkle of fresh parsley or thyme, if it was growing by the back door

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Directions

Mixing

She’d start by putting the beef, potatoes, onion, green pepper, egg, and salt in a big bowl.
“Mix it gently, George,” she’d tell me, “just enough to hold it together. If you mash it too much, the patties will be tough.”
That was her secret to tender patties.

Shaping and Browning

She shaped the mixture into four patties and flattened each one a little.
“Heat your pan,” she’d say, “and brown them on both sides. You want a bit of crust, but don’t let them burn.”
Once browned, she’d pour off any extra fat. Getting that golden crust brought out the flavor.

Simmering

Next, she’d pour the tomato juice over the patties, put the lid on, and let them simmer.
“About twenty minutes or so,” she said. “You’ll know they’re done when they look plump and the aroma fills the kitchen.”
Simmering made them tender and gave the sauce that rich, tangy flavor.

Gravy

She took the patties out and kept them warm on a plate.
Then, she whisked the flour into a bit of water and stirred it into the pan juices.
“Keep it moving, George, don’t rush it,” she’d remind me.
As the gravy thickened, it filled the kitchen with the smell of supper almost ready.

Serving

She spooned the tomato gravy over the patties and slid a plate my way.
“Here, try it with some mashed potatoes or fresh bread, whatever’s ready,” she’d say with a smile.
That first bite was always the best—simple, filling, and full of home.

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Why This Recipe Still Matters

Laura’s Meat and Potato Patties were more than just supper. They were part of the rhythm of our days and a reminder of how far a little could go with care and patience.

Every time I hear of someone making them, I’m right back in that farmhouse kitchen, watching Laura’s hands and hearing her voice.

I hope this recipe brings a bit of that warmth and comfort to your table, just as it did to ours.

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Until the next time, keep your minds open and your stories alive.
GW

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