I’m not a huge fan of fall. I’m a not-huger fan of winter. Why ever did I leave L.A.? I ask myself that from time to time, when the temperature fails to break 50° and it’s the third straight day of Portland’s famous showers. But then I shake it off and make the best of the situation.
Cooler weather allows us to pamper ourselves a bit. In the summer, free time tends to be spent frivolously, hiking and swimming and lazing about. Come fall or winter, free time is spent cuddling, chatting over warm cider, or playing board games while wrapped in blankets.
Or eating comfort foods. That’s right, potato, it’s your time to shine. Over the next few months I will mash you, I will grate you, and I will slice you, mixing you up with different combinations of onion and garlic and pepper and oil and salt. I might even boil you up and use you to make bread. (I think I just pegged a theme for VeganMoFo 2013.)
Today I learned how much potato is too much. That stack of potato pancakes in the photo up there? That much is too much. I had four little assorted potatoes—a creamy yellow, baby reds, and a blue—and I shredded them all up with a little onion, white pepper, and flour, and fried away to my heart’s delight. And I ate them by myself, ate them ’til they were gone, far beyond the point at which I was no longer hungry. And now, alas, I feel like crap. But I don’t blame the potato for doing its part, just bein’ all delicious.
I guess I’ll just wrap myself up in a blanket, grab a cup of something warm and gorgeous, and watch some British period pieces. In your face, L.A.