Dear the starchy apples of the Earth,
Oh, how would I survive in your absence? Your multifacetedness in applications makes my heart truly grow trifold each time I enjoy some grub featuring you. Submerged in hot water for a quarter of an hour brings a base perfect for raclette, sauces, or even just a simple sprinkling of salt. Conversely, shredding you into long strips then forming ovular patties creates an absolutely delectable fried breakfast nourishment option. Don’t even allow me the opportunity to start scribing my list of things I could form your sticky shape into—I won’t halt.
The definition of deliciousness bows to you; your very essence elicits sounds of enjoyment. Even when you tuck yourself into dishes I wouldn’t expect you in, I’m pleasantly surprised upon hearing your name in the ingredients list. Plus, I cannot extend my gratitude enough for your turning of all my favorites gluten-free. Glutenous breads and rolls no longer cause me harm, instead, you replace the poison and turn them into scrumptious options that bless my lingua for each spin of our watery rotating orb.
If I may, would you allow me to talk about your non-edible extensions? My sight balls have viewed your use in stamping blocks, adorned with colorful inks, making a repetitive pattern all non-biodegradable plastics become jealous of.
However, my one grievance comes from your rock-like nature. Unlike your name, pomme-de-terre, you do not slice nearly as nimbly as a pomme. Instead, I must grease my elbow and channel my inner Arnold Schwarzenegger in order to cut you—especially your sweet orange variety. Why does it take a Super Smash Bros hit to turn you into smaller bits? I nearly break into salty perspiration from your efforts. Alas, your difficulty proves worth it when I get the occasion to consume you.
“Mmmmmmm”-y regards,
Mia Hanuska