I never met a potato I didn’t like, which is why I try to keep them out of my kitchen. Otherwise, I would eat them every day. Idaho, Russet, Red, Sweet, Yukon Gold (although this last is my least favorite), They and their carb contents are all my friends.
Blame it on my Irish heritage or my Mother’s cooking. The former is deeply ingrained in me and the latter supported the former. I became addicted at an early age.
Last night, a Monday, I do what I do every Monday night when I’m in town and the snow is manageable. I visit a former neighbor. We have a cocktail together and reminisce, and we’ve done this for fifteen years.
But last night was the first time I asked her if she had any potatoes because I had this overwhelming urge to eat one, and I didn’t want to go to the supermarket for just one item, even if it was a potato.
She came through.
We rummaged through her eight pound bag of potatoes, which coincidentally also held eight beauties. You can do the math. I returned home with one pound’s worth of heaven that aked for over an hour while I salivated. And waited.
Finally the beauteous item was done, and I sat down to offer grace regarding my Irish heritage and my Mother’s cooking. I also sent up a prayer for my former neighbor too.
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