On Potatoes

When I was a junior in college, I spent a semester "enriching" myself by studying abroad in the UK. By enriching, I mean drinking, gaining 15-20 pounds, getting laid, and pursuing my passion for potato based foods. And drinking.

I've got a lot of mixed feelings about this arena of life, mostly because I oscillated between very solitary and very outgoing, and could not figure out what the hell I was doing. Sensing a theme here? At any rate, for some reason, the Brits, and my motley crew of American/Canadian pals did not mercilessly mock me when I danced the way my college friends did. This is not to say they thought I was a good dancer. They were merely a)kind, b)not yet immune to the cuteness that is embodied in my awkward flailing, or c) too drunk to notice. At any rate, while I mostly cooked for myself while I was there (things like stir-fries buried in sauce, beans and toast, and pasta with red sauce), after we went to the Union - the on-campus dance club - we would often prevent our hangovers early by indulging in chips cheese and gravy. I believe Canadians call this Poutine, which I find personally too close to poontang to use (by the way, in case you don't realize that clicking on a link labeled with a slang term for genitalia is NSFW, here is your official warning. Also, if you fall into this category, learn some common sense). I prefer to stick with the cumbersome but accurate title "chips cheese and gravy."

This delicacy is made by taking warm french fries, sprinkling cheese over them (mozzarella works well) and pouring warm gravy over that. It makes a brownish, globby mess on the plate, and unless you are familiar with its glories, it doesn't look particularly appetizing. You certainly don't want to overdo the gravy, because while you want a certain softness to the fries, and you want the cheese to melt, you do not want french fry soup. The type of fries matters little, as they are really simply a vehicle for the gravy and cheese, but teeny crunchy fries, while tasty, are hard to eat without making a huge mess.

The taste is delicious. It is salty, and beefy (or turkey-y, depending on the type of gravy used), with the firm texture of the fries, and the creaminess of the cheese. Eaten with a fork, and accompanied by a beer, it is the ultimate in late-night cravings.

So why did I eat it Sunday night for dinner?

The husband and I had gone to the hinterlands to visit my family for the weekend. I had visited a new grave, walked through the woods several times, and eaten more homegrown vegetables than I had in the last 2 months combined. On the way home, I felt ill. I was nauseated by the sandwich meat proudly displayed on the Subway billboard, and felt like my head and throat were going to rebel and move away to Alaska, where the cool air would ease the throbbing and the dryness. So why did I crave the food of late nights and sweaty, smoking dancing?

The memory and the psyche are astonishing, amazing things. Eating this food, I did not think of the faces that once sat around me, laughing tiredly, ears ringing from the speakers above. Sunday night, as I ate, I thought of my husband, whom I knew at the time I was in the UK, and who was on my mind a great deal during those months. I did not think of the fairly painful memories of that time. Instead, I thought of how, kneeling beside the couch on which I had collapsed, exhausted and sick, he kissed my forehead and without a second thought went to the store (after driving 3 hours already that day) to buy the things to make me the snack. Just as when I am hungover, or have the flu, he will just accept the situation, and provide me the starchy sustinence I crave: the potato, in all its forms.

The potato is easily manipulated into a variety of forms: fried, baked, mashed, roasted. It takes well to a variety of seasonings: salt, cheese, butter, rosemary, gravy. It is warm, soft, giving, nurturing. It is easily digested, and easy to eat thoughtlessly. If the potato were your friend, it would be the friend that spent the night just because you were lonely. It would be the friend who always had a bed made for you so you didn't have to walk home in the rain. It would be the friend who listened to you complain about your other friends, without joining in, without telling them, and without judging you. The potato is forgiveness dug up, dusted off, and given to you, just to make you feel better. No other reason.

And so, even though I don't crave the bad music, bad outfits, and bad dancing I used to do in that dark smoky room before scarfing down chips cheese and gravy at 2 in the morning, I do crave what the potato did for me then and still does: assures me that despite the fact that I am drunk, hungover, sick, or otherwise imperfect, I am still rooted in a world where those things are forgivable. And for me, who can barely forgive myself for much lesser sins, the potato is a reminder that while my fights may only be with myself, I can recover from the body blows.