What would you do if you had just one spud?
Would you boil it, steam it or mash it? Bake it, fry it or roast it?
Perhaps you’d chunk it up for salad or layer it into a gratin.
Or go the deep fat fryer route and turn it into crisps or chips.
It’s one of those desert island questions (albeit a desert island that comes, it would have to be said, with a fully equipped kitchen).
And the desert island answer? For me, without hesitation, the potato would have to be baked.
One potato, baked
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
Ah, summer in Ireland. Where you’re just as likely to be bathed in rain as in sunshine and where the organisers of outdoor events play a game of Russian roulette with the weather and hope that they are hit, if not with sunshine, then at least not with a fatal shot of precipitation.
As I made ready to head to the Midsummer Fair in Temple Bar on Sunday last, I peered out at grey skies and a persistent drizzle. It didn’t look good for folks wanting to picnic and be entertained while lounging on the faux-grass in Meeting House Square.
Still, I donned my rain gear and arrived to find a few other hardy souls enjoying the trad music on offer, some even be-seated on the I-can-believe-it’s-not-grass patch. More importantly, I was able to satisfy my morning’s need for caffeine at the coffee angel stand, my portable coffee of choice. The day was looking up.