Sitting in the library, I can't but help crave potatoes. Like real potatoes. Oh my goodness how I love them.
Sadly, I have no cooking ability whatsoever, nor any desire to acquire any. I am too easily tempted by the fast and instant, a quality of mine that I (somewhat) jokingly blame on our generations reliance on high-speediness. But if I could cook, I would make potatoes.
Ah, potatoes. Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew, as told by Samwise Gamgee, a wise hobbit indeed. I shall begin with my love of mashed potatoes, of which there is not a quantifiable number of expression. Creamy and luscious and scrumptious and amazingly smooth and wonderful, my mouth waters just thinking about them. A warm golden color, as soft as butter-filled clouds and as light as one of the Olsen twins, if mashed potatoes were real, I think I would marry them. But I would probably have an extra-marital affair with baked potatoes, topping our love off with a heavenly blanket of sour cream and parsley. Oh God.
Undaunted by unsupportive friends who make snide remarks like "It doesn't take a genius to make potatoes" (ehm-ehm DANIA), I persevere in my imaginary creation, settling for my dream potatoes than actually taking the time to make potatoes.
So I sit here, unsatisfied in a cold and potato-less library, thinking about potatoes. Where my skills may fail at cooking, my mind astounds even me with its colorful palate of potato dishes, ranging from one potato dish, to possibly even three whole dishes. A genius for serious Dania, I know.
Sadly, I have no cooking ability whatsoever, nor any desire to acquire any. I am too easily tempted by the fast and instant, a quality of mine that I (somewhat) jokingly blame on our generations reliance on high-speediness. But if I could cook, I would make potatoes.
Ah, potatoes. Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew, as told by Samwise Gamgee, a wise hobbit indeed. I shall begin with my love of mashed potatoes, of which there is not a quantifiable number of expression. Creamy and luscious and scrumptious and amazingly smooth and wonderful, my mouth waters just thinking about them. A warm golden color, as soft as butter-filled clouds and as light as one of the Olsen twins, if mashed potatoes were real, I think I would marry them. But I would probably have an extra-marital affair with baked potatoes, topping our love off with a heavenly blanket of sour cream and parsley. Oh God.
Undaunted by unsupportive friends who make snide remarks like "It doesn't take a genius to make potatoes" (ehm-ehm DANIA), I persevere in my imaginary creation, settling for my dream potatoes than actually taking the time to make potatoes.
So I sit here, unsatisfied in a cold and potato-less library, thinking about potatoes. Where my skills may fail at cooking, my mind astounds even me with its colorful palate of potato dishes, ranging from one potato dish, to possibly even three whole dishes. A genius for serious Dania, I know.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA......*wipes tear*
ReplyDeleteLojy, you astound me. And I promise to make you mashed potatoes when I come live at your house again.
FOW.