Potato

Eastside Road, April 30, 2011—

WE HAVE NOT BEEN eating enough potatoes lately; I don't know why. They don't seem to be a part of restaurant meals any more, and as you may have noticed we've been eating out a lot lately. When I was a boy we bought potatoes by the hundred-pound sack. There were four of us boys at home, and Dad. And Mom too, of course, but I don't think she made that much of a dent in them. I suppose we were potato-eaters, not that far removed from those van Gogh painted. We had them boiled, mostly, but occasionally mashed. I don't recall Mom baking them.

Tonight we had them baked, dressed with olive oil, salt, and pepper; and I had some leftover potatoes that had been steam-sautéed, God knows when. I suddenly realized how much I'd missed them, these last few days. We had chard with them, white, yellow, and red chard from the garden, and salad of course; and I was grateful for them. Lettuce has come up of its own volition in the garden, and the chard. But tomorrow or the next day I've got to plant some potatoes.

Cheap Nero d'Avola