Pasta and potato

Eastside Road, Healdsburg, December 22, 2008—

WHEN I WAS A boy Dad bought a fifty-pound sack of potatoes every couple of weeks. Of course there were four of us boys, and Dad ate his share too, and so did Mom, I think, though her share was much smaller. We had potatoes every night. If we had beans, or macaroni and cheese, or rice, even, we still had potatoes. Sometimes I think there must be a Dutch gene in the family.

Tonight we had pasta in red sauce, leftover; but that didn't keep us from having a baked potato as well. Bake it, split it open, pour in some olive oil, grind in some black pepper, don't forget the salt. Green salad, of course.

The rest of the Preston Mourvedre