And lo, and behold! There came to him in a flash of suffocating dirt-stench... a craving for fried potatoes--willy-nilly and thither from his Irish ancestry of yore and yon--as he yawned at yours truly. Thing of it is this he is me, and I and my potentially perfect potato-gasm are on our way to the one-two point, (as the Chinese say), whereby my greas'd wok and me will see just what we can concoct from just one plump potato sliced just so its inner circle's shared--so succulent and sweet and smelling faintly of fair rosemary--with only we.
Oh, sweet masher of my intellectual potato...
Where the hell are you?
I'm making dinnah, and it's gonna be awesome. You're invited. Come dine on my marvelous tuber! Or at least don't be a boor...
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