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cent to it.
Whenever I wallow in limbo over which of six stuffings will blanket my baked potato - be it sour cream & chive, bacon & cheese,, broccoli &
cheese, chicken Kiev, beef burgundy, or seafood delight - I recall the plight of the Afghani mother. The resulting shame is a sure remedy for indecision. Instantly I choose the first and simplest potato that comes to mind: baked with butter, and 1 try to forget that an exotic array of options awaits to tantalize just for the asking.
Let me state the matter plainly. The rest of the world is eating big, dumb boiled potatoes while we, the few, present to our palates potatoes with color and presence. Within our American borders, potatoes require design and construction; step beyond those borders and, as if by magic, potatoes require mere fire and water.
To reflect on this obvious imbalance in contemporary potato consumption is to invite selfrecrimination. Therefore, I bolt from consciousness just to unburden myself.
Then return with me to numbness, to my dreamland where potatoes and their numerous forms are numberless. Feel us fading....but first! before I forget. Is there no wrap-up, no moral?
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