Spud Sunday: No Spud Is An Island
It’s true. No spud should have to spend its days alone.
Whether absorbed in the intimate company of its buttery best mate or plated up with a larger group of friends, the potato does what it does best when it’s part of a team.
Postcard Perfect Porridge
Yes, right now I would rather be on a tropical beach somewhere. This one looks good.
Dear Porridge,
It’s not you, it’s me.
Spud Sunday: Mission Improbable
The following is the content of a letter to be opened in the event of my arrest and possible conviction for the (admittedly difficult to comprehend and almost unpardonable) offence of, er, smuggling seed potatoes into Ireland…
In which I plead my case for clemency and understanding.
I, The Daily Spud, do freely and of my own volition, admit that on Sunday last, the 24th of January 2010, I undertook to travel to the UK for the express purpose of acquiring seed potatoes to bring back to Ireland, knowing full well that, in the eyes of the nation, this is tantamount to an act of horticultural, if not national, treason.
I say seed potatoes, you say contraband
That’s The Way I Breakfast Roll
It’s mid-yawny-morning.
The doorbell rings.
I’m not expecting anyone or anything but, lo and behold, there is a man at my door bearing gifts (woohoo, I’m all for that!) – a basket of Denny sausages, rashers, ham and 2 still-warm, foil-wrapped breakfast rolls to be precise.
Score!
…or at least it would have been if I was given to eating porky products. As it is, I haven’t done so for a long time and, when baskets of same come my way (this being precisely the first time this has happened), I swiftly pass them on to family members who are only too happy to accept.
I suppose Denny weren’t to know. They were just drawing attention to the results of their “Home Is” campaign, where they surveyed people on their thoughts about what makes a home and, as part of the deal, donated funds to The Simon Communities of Ireland, longtime champions of the homeless in this country. Good on them for that.
The delivery got me thinking, not so much about home, though, as about breakfast rolls.
Beneath that foil exterior lurks a breakfast roll
Spud Sunday: Chef du Cream Cheese
Let me explain to you how this works:
(a) Big food brand gets together with well-known chef.
(b) Chef creates recipes using said brand of food.
(c) Brand wants to demonstrate general tastiness of the recipes, so they get the chef to make lunch using some of same.
(d) Third parties get invited to said lunch to provide independent verification of the mouth-watering nature of the chef’s creations.
(e) Lunch is eaten, wine is drunk, everybody goes home happy, well-fed and well disposed towards the parties and the food involved.
Simple enough formula, really, and I got to see it in action up close this week, where the brand in question was Philadelphia cream cheese, the chef was Kevin Dundon (yes, he of the Zest! interview experience) and I was one of those well-fed third parties.
Kevin Dundon's Philadelphia Lunchables: smoked salmon and scallops, chicken and mushroom parcel, wild mushroom risotto, philly mille feuille
Fave New World
Suffice to say that I was ruddy-cheeked by the time I departed.
That’ll happen when you (a) spend a few hours in a room with some 200 wines from 37 different New Zealand winemakers and (b) have yet to learn the necessary art of spitting. I’m feeling woozy just thinking about it.
The event was yesterday’s annual New Zealand wine trade tasting presented by New Zealand winegrowers and ably organised by Jean Smullen. The tasting room was filled with wine buyers and restaurateurs and people whose job it is to write about wine and, er, me (there will be no prizes for spotting the odd one out, sorry!).
Wine, check, glasses, check, off we go...
Spud Sunday: Bread For Thought
Upside down bread, upside down world
What a lucky sod I am. Let me count the ways.
After the recent extended period of cold snappiness, today was a beautiful, crisp, sunny day and I had the health to enjoy it. I also had running water so that I could shower and not sully the day with smelliness. Not to mention being able to make my morning coffee, so that I didn’t have to subject anyone to excessive early morning grumpiness (at least not any more than usual).
And time. I had time to contemplate the creation of some olive oily, potato-y bread. And time to contemplate what had been going on elsewhere in the universe this week.
A week where my brother’s bedroom ceiling fell in when pipes froze and burst in his attic. Where a friend was seen on national news toting buckets of water as the water supply to her housing estate has been gone more or less since Christmas. And, yes, Haiti (I’ve been taking English Mum’s lead on that and giving a bit for Shelterbox).
Whiskey Business
Medicinal.
That’s what I would have said if anyone had challenged me about my supping of hot whiskeys at lunchtime on a Tuesday. As it was, I don’t think anyone in the vicinity was too bothered about my whiskey intake – possibly they were too busy downing hot toddies themselves. Besides, it was Dublin, it was January, it was cold. And the whiskeys were free. I really don’t think you need any more excuses than that.
