...there's both eatin' and drinkin' in it

Tag: Greek (Page 1 of 2)

Spud Sunday: Paddy’s Spuds

Nobody, as the Monty Python crew once memorably observed, expects the Spanish Inquisition.

Everyone, on the other hand, expects spuds on Paddy’s Day, but I’ll betcha nobody expects spudakopita (cue Python-esque diabolical laughter). You can get the low down on this potatoey St. Patrick’s Day version of spanakopita below (though there’s no need to restrict its making to one day of the year – remember that potatoes are for life, not just for Paddy’s Day).

What is special about St. Patrick’s Day when it comes to spuds, though, is that it was, and is, a traditional day for planting pototoes in Ireland. Kaethe Burt O’Dea of SPUDS.ie (who is quoted in today’s Washington Post piece on Ireland and the trialling of GM potatoes) wisely suggests that we might do well to reclaim this day as a National Potato Day and relegate the consumption of copious pints to a supporting role. I’ll plant to that.

SPUDS St Patricks 2013

Plant a spud – or several – this St. Patrick’s Day (image from the SPUDS campaign)

Meanwhile, given the season that’s in it, I have found myself awash with samples of a spudly nature generously provided to me by assorted parties who know my taste in edibles only too well.
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Spud Sunday: The Spud Collector

It is a simple fact of life that people see potatoey things and think of me. A quote here, a picture there. A recipe, an article, a song, a poem, or perhaps an unusual bag of crisps. If it is in any way even vaguely potato-related then there is every chance that it will get sent my way (and bring it on I say, just as you can never have too many potatoes, you can never have too many potatoey things).

Potato recipe booklets

Latest acquisitions by the Daily Spud Collection:
old school recipe booklets

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The Cheese Formerly Known As Feta

Feta cheese

My First Feta Cheese

There I was, proud as punch, admiring my first batch of feta cheese.

I knew that, before long, I would be all “feta this” and “feta that”, a salad here and a spanakopita there, and still enough feta left over to impress friends and family. It was a big, cheesy win.

Until I remembered that technically I’m not allowed to call it feta.

Not according to the European Union at any rate.

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