After a recent encounter over a bowl of exceptional, sage butter-drizzled patatas bravas, where I seemed alone in my blubbering affection for the potato, it became clear to me that the wart-riddled spud was in danger of becoming an unsung hero.
Perhaps it’s the part German blood in my veins that awakens such a deep love of potatoes. Or maybe my years around Banters pulling up their noses at the versatile tuber amid all the real meal revolutionising has turned me into a crazed woman rooting for the underdog spud.
A simple potato is about as real as it gets. Just ask any one of the hundreds of Irish working class who relied on them for much of their nutritional intake. It formed such a large part of their culinary esteem that the Irish concocted 16 different terms for potatoes from tiny (Paidrín (pad-reen)), to wet (Stomach (shli-muck) to mashed (Brúitín (brew-teen)). Even couched ones garnered a unique moniker (Sámhaí (saw-vee), perhaps what you become when you’ve eaten too much Brúitín.
Continue reading this short tribute to potatoes on Food24 (it really hits home in the last half 🙂