Spud Sunday: Just Add Eggs
Today, please allow me to present the egg-in-a-spud-shell.
I do not know:
(a) why I never thought of doing this before (and I’m clearly not the first person to have had this idea)
(b) why it should have occurred to me today
No matter, really. Better to come late to the egg-and-potato party than not at all.
Egg baked potato, simplicity itself
Just Call Me Jammy
The plan was to stay for no more than an hour.
Four hours and a lot of wine later, I was still there. Oops.
The event was Gilbey’s 2nd Annual Portfolio Tasting in the impressive Guinness Storehouse and I hadn’t expected it to be quite so… big. We’re talking 300-wines-and-a-table-full-of-whiskeys big.
I mean, good grief. What are these people trying to do to me? And at 11 o’clock in the morning, no less. They must know that my camera does not have an angle wide enough for that amount of wine, to say nothing of my palate.
Wine glasses at the ready, deep breath and off we go
Spud Sunday: The Great Aleppo Pepper
Swoon.
I have a brand new Valentine (Mr. Tayto take note).
His name is Aleppo (which, granted, makes him sound like one of the Marx Brothers), he hails from Syria, he’s red hot (well, he’s perhaps not as hot as some, but just hot enough for me) and smells, as best I can describe it, of tobacco.
Hmm. Not sounding so attractive now, is he?
Whiskey Business, Part II
Apple pudding, hot whiskey sauce, 'nuff said
Winter hasn’t gone away, y’know (like you needed reminding). Neither, therefore, has the need to keep my body warm both inside and out. And while thermal underwear will do for the latter, you still can’t beat a hot whiskey for the former.
The unfortunate truth, though, is that (try as I might) Spud cannot live on hot whiskeys alone – I find that pudding is required at least every once in a while.
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
