Potato dinner rolls

Potato dinner rolls sound humble, though they have this lovely softness that makes people reach for “just one more” with no guilt at all. I’ve made them so many times in my little London kitchen that I could probably prep them half-asleep. I wouldn’t, though—one time I tried baking after a late night and ended up sprinkling salt like someone possessed. The dough survived, but my nerves didn’t.

The magic trick is mashed potato. It gives the rolls a gentle fluff, almost like tiny pillows. I grew up watching my mum mash potatoes with a fork, muttering at any lumps. Now I use a proper masher, since lumps in bread dough feel a bit odd under your palms. The scent of warm mash mixed with butter takes me straight back to childhood dinners. Funny how smells do that.

Here’s my slightly tweaked version of a classic recipe. A tiny bit more butter than tradition suggests, since I clearly believe in joy.

Ingredients
300g strong white bread flour
180g mashed potato (plain, cooled)
1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1 packet instant yeast (7g)
60ml warm milk
60ml warm water
40g softened butter
1 egg

Method
Stir flour, sugar, salt, and yeast in a bowl. Add mashed potato, milk, water, butter, and the egg. Bring everything together with your hands. The dough feels a bit sticky at first, though it smooths out with a little patience. I always end up with dough on my sleeves no matter how tidy my intentions.

Knead for around 10 minutes until the dough turns soft and stretchy. Pop it into a lightly oiled bowl, cover it, and leave it somewhere cosy. My favourite spot is next to the microwave, since it hums gently and seems to encourage rising. My cat, Buttercream, sits guard like a dough bodyguard.

Once the dough doubles, press it down gently and divide into 12 pieces. Roll each one into a soft ball. Tuck them into a baking tin so they sit snug together. They puff up in the oven later, creating that pull-apart effect that makes people tear them apart with little gasps.

Let them rise again for about 30–40 minutes. Brush lightly with milk. Bake at 180°C for around 20 minutes or until the tops turn golden. Some days mine brown quicker, perhaps when my oven decides to feel enthusiastic.

Let the rolls cool just enough so you don’t scorch your fingers. The steam that escapes when you pull one apart smells like home-cooked comfort in its purest form. I always eat one standing over the counter, pretending I’m “testing” it, though really I’m just impatient.

There’s something lovely about bread that comes from such simple bits—flour, mash, a bit of warmth, and a baker with streaks of dough across the face. These rolls bring people together in the nicest way, often around a table with butter melting faster than anyone can spread it.