I'm frying potatoes.
I recently said, on a writing forum where I hang out, that if a writer imagined the potato, nobody would believe in it. Easy to plant, easy to harvest, easy to store, easy to propagate. Rejoices in cold wet weather that many other crops can't tolerate. Poisonous foliage so that not many things come along and eat it. Very high calories per square foot. Carbs and protein and, of all things, vitamin C. What more could you want?
I took a writing break and ate the potatoes. Mm, butter.
I caught a cold. When I catch a cold I tend to feel all anxious and Looming Doomish. Potatoes are helpful. Oddly, chocolate isn't.
I'm putting all the nervous-making things that I should be doing this week on the shelf, to do next week when I hopefully feel better. This week, potatoes.
Um. That is all.
