ode to the potato

Boiled, then served with butter and dill. Pan fried. Taken from the field and buried in a fire on the meadow. In soups. With sour milk on the side.

Staples of the Polish diet of my childhood.

And now? Rosti – shredded and pan-baked, sprinkled with fontina cheese and scallions. Sliced thinly and fried, sprinkled with sea salt. Nuked in a microwave for 8 minutes. Mashed, with roasted garlic and basil. Mixed with flour and rolled into gnocchi.

Or, a simple favorite: purple, organic, cut in halves, baked at a high temp on a sheet with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt. Munched with a glass of chilled Burgundy or rosé, naturally.

This morning’s farmer’s market at Hilldale had the usual – good foods, dedicated vendors. And kids doing cute things. Oh, and don’t forget the women, who sit all morning long, putting flowers into tight bunches, brimming with the reds of late August. Perfect place, perfect time to daydream.









But what caught my heart today was this stand, with the organic potato guy’s crates of colorful spuds.

You a photographer? (It’s all relative, isn’t it? I mean: a camera in hand makes one a photographer, no?)
Yes…
Here, let me make it nicer for you.

He bites off a potato half and displays the vivid purple inside.









Obviously today’s post will have to be about potatoes.

Purple potatoes, baked in olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt from the Camargue and farmer’s market peppercorns. Served with steamed sweet corn, picked this morning, I’m told. Buttered with chive butter if you wish. But I like it plain. With a glass of chilled Burgundy. Okay, rosé.