Yesterday my friend who teaches cooking here at school had an Iron Chef competition with her grade 9 classes. The students had all kinds of goals to meet, and the cooking took place in class time. Their assignment was to create delicious and well-prepared dishes with potatoes. A, the teacher, had asked staff members and teachers if they would be judges, and (never one to look a gift meal in the mouth) I accepted immediately, if not sooner.
I expected that I would be asked to cross the hall to the cooking room, where I would gaze at a number of elegantly composed dishes (snort) and take delicate bites here and there, closing my eyes and murmuring appreciatively. The reality was a little different...
Dear reader, yesterday morning between 10 and 11, I ate 6 plates of potatoes.
The cooking was great. There were scalloped potatoes, lemon roasted potatoes, sweet glazed potatoes, chicken and potatoes, and (my favourite) gnocci. (Seriously. Grade 9s made gnocci.)
Even I, however, can only eat so many potatoes.
Lunchtime did finally arrive, and that is when I made one final realization. I had packed my lunch as I usually do, taking leftovers from the fridge and jazzing things up a bit with a crusty roll and a bit of cheese and fruit. There, lying quietly and blamelessly in the bottom of my bag, was a tupperware container of food just waiting to be heated up and eaten.
Yesterday for lunch I brought leek and potato soup.
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