June Food Stamp Challenge: Pommes De Terre-ibles
Amazing. We are actually out of bread. Typically, this situation wouldn’t warrant a second thought, but according to my boyfriend, not buying bread for another 48 hours because we are over-budget on our $202 June food budget is a serious, serious problem.
At least that’s how he made it sound tonight in the car when we were driving around, running errands. “If we’re already over budget, then why can’t we just go more over budget,” he complained. “We’ve already failed at this experiment.” “Keep talking,” I retorted. “You’re giving me great material for the blah-g.”
He drove in silence for the next three minutes.
(Just as a pantry update, our fridge and cabinets are packed with food. With Mr. Foxypants eating most of his meals at work, we’re not eating through all the food we’ve bought and collected in the past four weeks at our normal pace. We’re not even close to being out of food. We’re just out of bread).
Luckily, when we got home I found a ten pound sack of potatoes hiding on the shelf under the microwave. Mr. Foxypants was excited by this discovery–a couple baked potatoes would go a long way is subduing his carb deprivation anxiety. Also, they give me an excuse to use my dusty degree in French for the exceptionally lame title of this post. Bonus.
Mr. Foxypants doesn’t remember buying potatoes, so I have no idea who brought these into the house. It certainly wasn’t me as I think potatoes are generally disgusting. Their texture reminds me of mealy apples, which is, as far as mouth feel goes, gross. I don’t like potatoes in any form except for french fries. And even with fries I’m picky. They can’t be mushy ranch fries or dried out shoe strings. They have to be double-fried like McDonalds fries, but not be McDonalds fries because that company is evil. In short, I don’t like potatoes.
And these potatoes are extra sad. They’re so old that they are all shriveled and sprouting poisonous vines and spotty. But I refuse to buy bread for another two days, so I’m going to have to make these potatoes into a suitable alternative. If I had a few extra hours, I’d bake a ding dang loaf of bread and toss these spuds in the compost bin. But, I’m short on time, so baked potatoes it is.
I spend the next five minutes grumpily digging the eyes out of eight little potatoes. Is this really what you have to do as punishment for being bad on a submarine? Because really, I can think of worse chores.
I’ve actually never made a baked potato before tonight. Why? Because potatoes are yucky. At any rate, I remembered from watching Little House on the Prairie or, maybe, Bewitched that you have to stab the potatoes with a fork a bunch of times to let the evil potato spirit escape during the cooking process. Or something. So I stabbed the potatoes a lot. Then I searched the entire refrigerator in vain for the one thing that would make baked potatoes appealing to me: bacon grease. Sadly, the magical fat was nowhere to be seen, so I rubbed the potatoes down with olive oil and kosher salt until they resembled the tuber version of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan The Barbarian. Then I baked them in a 350 degree oven, right on the middle rack, for 45 minutes until they were smushy to the touch (and burning to the thumb-ouch).
I served the potatoes with the budget-busting butter of the devil, sour cream and crumbled, crispy fried soy chorizo bits.
Mr. Foxypants was so impressed with the potatoes that he’s bringing the four leftover baked potatoes to work tomorrow for lunch, where presumably he’ll smear them on the free bread he can eat from the kitchen at his office.
Breakfast: scrambled eggs, apricots (from neighbor’s tree), coffee
Lunch: Me: apples (from rental house) with peanut butter Mr. Foxypants: leftover Indian food at work
Snack: Me: homemade pickled carrots!
Dinner: baked potatoes with butter, sour cream and soy chorizo, fizzy lemonade