Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

I’ve just dragged a lonesome sweet-potato out of my veggie-bin; scrutinised it with a suspicion normally set aside for delinquent children, and with an indignant ‘hurumph’ peeled it and chopped it for dinner tonight.

It has been 15 years since I first came across an orange sweet potato.  Back home, sweet potatoes have that purple-y skin, but under that, they’re greyish-white/cream in colour.  (They really look unappealing, but once you’ve magic-ed them in the oven with honey and sesame seeds, and served them laced with coriander and feta cheese, they’re pretty amazing- not quite the same as a normal potato, but they are yummy!)

Up here in the northern hemisphere, sweet potatoes are more pink on the outside, but inside they’re orange- like some sort of Butternut-wannabe. 

Back in 2001 when I was working in London, under the tutelage of a real a**-hole, I got a literal ear-clip from this passive-aggressive Anglo-Grecian guy because I hadn’t finished my list of prep for the day.  I explained that a particular salad hadn’t been finished because the sweet potato had not been delivered yet. He looked at me blankly, as if I was being a lazy git, because there on the counter next to me, was a handful of these pink-orange tuberous things that were indeed the sweet potatoes I was supposed to be using.  Needless to say, I left work late that day, an encounter that I haven’t ever forgotten, but nothing has served to change my opinion: The  bog-standard northern hemisphere Sweet Potato doesn’t hold a flame to the more common-down-south ‘Oriental Sweet’ potato.

Neither of which come close to a good old fashioned POTATO.  Which is really the raison d’etre of this diatribe today ;-).

So food fats are now the new diet trends; carbs are the new poisons, and it has become a great source of dismay in my life that the poor little potato is not really permissible in the diet of a 38-year old-metabolically challenged-anti exercise mother living in the cold climes.

It’s as if all of the things in life that were good for my psyche are now bad for me.

Potatoes, Champagne , Bad boys and Loud music.  Some are scientifically proven, others are just socially required once you become a wife and mother.

Strictly speaking Champagne is not all that bad for us.  I mean- delicate little yeasty bubbles, discreetly rising to the surface and popping to say hello, a crisp clear flavour to welcome almost anything- why wouldn’t they be good for us?

Yeah, okay, its not.  My problem is that I just CANNOT. SAY. NO…

Bad boys and loud music- they kind of go hand in hand.  I have a picture in my mind of road tripping with the top down, the lanky body of a shaven-head, tattoo-ed bad-boy hitching a ride.  The sun  setting in my rear-view mirror, the core-drilling beat of the drum, the acoustic guitar riffs pelting through the speakers and down into the valley below.  All that bad-boy is ever going to be is a insignificant flirt, a casual touch on your bare shoulders that makes you feel gorgeous, and so long as you desire nothing more, because as a woman, you’re perfect, and enough to be yourself.

 In which case its perfectly normal to go home at the end of the day and cuddle your bumpy hips alongside that boep of your soulmate.

But the Potato.  I’ve given up bad boys and loud music.  And I only drink Champagne every other weekend.  But the potato stops me in my tracks.  I look at this faux-yam- looking thing on my kitchen counter, and I am overcome with disappointment.  Even if I may be half braising, half confit-ing this sad lonely tuber under a roast chicken, even though it may actually end up being quite tasty given the amount of lard, rosemary, garlic, lemon and shallots I am cooking it in, it will just not ever add up to the simple beauty of a potato.

😉

Have a lovely evening all,

Chat soon,

Xxx