Martin did sausage & mash for dinner tonight, and we were almost out of potatoes. So he went outside and dug up the first of our potatoes from the garden. They are lovely. And it made me start thinking about the humble old potato.
The ones in our garden are "vale everest" potatoes, because, like everything else in the whole world, the Brits manage to take something that is gloriously simple and complicate it until it's not even nice anymore. Back home, you have potatoes. Over here you have about 12 different varieties. You have Maris Pipers, Charlottes, Marfonas, etc. They are also designated by area they were grown. Hence, Jersey royals, Lincolnshire whites, Boston new potatoes. And each one is best for different things. Some are best for baking. Some are suitable for mashing. Others are best for chips. Still others are used in salads. So, instead of just buying potatoes when you go to the supermarket, you buy 6 different kinds of potatoes depending on what you are making.
I miss good old Idaho spuds! One potato for all purposes, and still the best in the whole world.
Although my Vale Everest spuds ARE gorgeous!
Now I'm done with my rant, Dylan had his first ever haircut today. I took him to George's Gents Barbershop, just up the street. I asked him how much he'd charge me to just trim it above the ears (that's the only place it needed doing) and he told me he'd do it for free. It took about 3 minutes, and Dylan was really good. He held remarkably still and was just intrigued by the buzzing of the clippers. He's very dashing now, and there was actually more hair than I thought. It's just so blonde that you don't really notice it unless you're looking. On top it's got lovely streaks of strawberry blonde. Oh, my son is so handsome!