Blame it on my kitchen.
That’s the reply I feel like giving every week when the reminder from Facebook pops up to tell me that likers of The Daily Spud haven’t heard from me in a while. Gee thanks Facebook, but there’s no need to rub it in – I am keenly aware of the fact that spud activity has been somewhat sporadic of late, but I’d like to think that, ultimately, it’s for the greater spud good.
Which brings me back to my kitchen, or current lack thereof. It goes something like this:
A few months ago, I became the proud owner of the house that surrounded this bit of an oul’ kitchen – a kitchen that, once I had my way, would not be long for this world.
In what might just have been the ultimate way to spend a Spud Sunday, I was, this past weekend, in far West Kerry, immersed in Féile an Phráta and An Spud-Off Mór (that’s the Festival of the Potato and the Big Spud-Off for those in need of a translation).
Judging spuds: one of many Kerry spuds to come under scrutiny this weekend
A full report will follow in due course on my spud adventuring (though not before I take off again next weekend for a packed few days at the London Food Blogger Connect conference, where, the programme reminds me, that I’ll be speaking on Friday afternoon and again on Sunday morning on blogging, writing and – in all likelihood – on spuds; it’s a subject I find hard to avoid).
Indeed, were it not for my prior foreign engagement, I’d be tempted to stay in Kerry where, hot on the heels of this weekend’s festivities, are the Flavour of Kilorglin, taking place from 5th-7th July and the Kenmare Food Carnival from the 12th-14th – plenty to occupy those in a food festival frame of mind. In the meantime, while you await news of potato festival delights, herewith a little light reading on the latest bit of spud gadgetry to come my way.
Mash is like that little girl of nursery rhyme renown: when it is good, it is very, very good; when it is bad, it is horrid. A fellow festival goer this weekend reminded me of just how horrid that horrid can be, when she described the misery of her mother’s mash: overcooked, watery potatoes, added to a blender and made pourable with a large quantity of milk. A sad and sorry end for any self-respecting spud.
Well, whaddya know, kitchen wishes really can come true. Where once there was a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, there is now, in my kitchen, a shiny new stand mixer. It’s all thanks to some more than generous wand-waving by the Fairy Hobmother.
My new shiny
Er, the Fairy Who?