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If I knew the way, I would take you home
I work five days a week lately, but not Monday-Friday. So I have my 'weekends' at various points in the week. Tuesday was my friday night of cinema-going, yesterday was my Saturday of good intentions and no real work, and today is my Sunday. I am refusing to leave the house (partially due to the fact that I think I'm getting a cold).
I slept 'til nearly noon, and have done little all day besides read and be online. Some pictures on Facebook made me homesick, so I cooked some sweet potatoes for my dinner. I know, I know, food miles and all. I think they came from Spain, though, which isn't too bad. At home, if one is so inclined, it is possible to buy delicious sweet p'taters right off the farm--or, more likely, from the flea market cum farmer's market that encamps on the Raleigh fairgrounds every weekend. Even the supermarkets get them more or less locally, at least when they're in season.
Shunning my grandparents' method of par-boiling the orange lovelies, I generally bake them. Everyone says you have to prick the skins with a fork before baking them. I'm not sure what happens if you don't--maybe they explode or something--but when you do, big trails of their delicious caramel-like sugars ooze out of the holes and waste away on the baking tray. Today, having for once pulled the tray from the oven before these trails and puddles of sweetness became black and encrusted, I peeled them off after they'd cooled, eating some like candy and laid the others across my peeled potato like a caramel glaze. Surely there must be some way of keeping this delicious goo inside the potato when you cook it! Perhaps I should try roasting them next time.
Incidentally, while I was writing this, my Aunt Monet's friend Martha, who is from Chapel Hill but happens to be in Edinburgh at the moment, phoned me quite randomly. Maybe she smelled the sweet p'taters cooking.
I slept 'til nearly noon, and have done little all day besides read and be online. Some pictures on Facebook made me homesick, so I cooked some sweet potatoes for my dinner. I know, I know, food miles and all. I think they came from Spain, though, which isn't too bad. At home, if one is so inclined, it is possible to buy delicious sweet p'taters right off the farm--or, more likely, from the flea market cum farmer's market that encamps on the Raleigh fairgrounds every weekend. Even the supermarkets get them more or less locally, at least when they're in season.
Shunning my grandparents' method of par-boiling the orange lovelies, I generally bake them. Everyone says you have to prick the skins with a fork before baking them. I'm not sure what happens if you don't--maybe they explode or something--but when you do, big trails of their delicious caramel-like sugars ooze out of the holes and waste away on the baking tray. Today, having for once pulled the tray from the oven before these trails and puddles of sweetness became black and encrusted, I peeled them off after they'd cooled, eating some like candy and laid the others across my peeled potato like a caramel glaze. Surely there must be some way of keeping this delicious goo inside the potato when you cook it! Perhaps I should try roasting them next time.
Incidentally, while I was writing this, my Aunt Monet's friend Martha, who is from Chapel Hill but happens to be in Edinburgh at the moment, phoned me quite randomly. Maybe she smelled the sweet p'taters cooking.
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(Anonymous) 2007-07-22 04:13 am (UTC)(link)James