In a similar vein: I Am A Simple Frenchman of the Soil…I Wish Only To Tend To My Beans In Peace. Sometimes for dinner the need is just one potato, one big potato. Kitchen is one wooden spoon, big, one merry fire in hearth, open, jug of herbs in corner, one big pot for stew, always stew, wine bottle cork in no label, yellow butter in crock, a big round bread, knife for holding, little cup, one plate, kitchen is finished. My meal is a potato, big, for a big and simple hunger, my plain hunger by the sea. For many years there have been troubles in my country, but I do not worry myself about them – the problems of noblemen, with their many rich sauces, and silken gravies, their multi-coursed subtleties and armies of capons charging across a saffron-spiced battlefield - I content myself only with the problems of the potato. The satisfaction of the potato too; the inside of a potato is steam’d with honor and dignity and is fluffed into peace. With tahini and soy sauce makes for a most savory potato. A potato is enfleshed but unblooded, the greatest calming-meat among her cousins the vegetables. A potato is the hearty nut-daughter of the soil and her skin makes for a most peaceful cracking.
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