I do persist in buying potatoes – keeping them cool and dark like one is supposed to – but more often than not these are the vegetables that grow eyes, eyes that plead “don’t throw me on the compost pile. Just scrape off the green and we are fine to eat.” They are lying of course. My poor husband, for whom mashed potato would be his desert island dish, usually has to get his potato lust sated elsewhere. What can I say?
Don’t get me wrong, I am not immune to the charms of the triple cooked chip, or the lure of softly creamy, garlic-scented dauphinoise. But mostly I am happy with other tubers and roots, and also to the grains and pseudo grains that…
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