Not actually addictive. Just close.
As a teenager, I had a friend called Melissa who lived just around the corner from my top-rate job at the Dairy Queen. Her parents would host fabulous parties in the summer, with everyone coming by for something for the barbecue. The kind of party where you knew hardly anyone there but you still felt perfectly at ease. The kind of party that would end far too late for you to get home at a sensible hour, so you would just know you would end up crashing on the floor. Which in this case was very good because Melissa also had MTV and an amazing collection of Lisa Frank stickers. So cleaning up a little after the party was totally acceptable as it was rewarded by writing the cutest pen pal letters in the universe while watching Kennedy host Alternative Nation and squirming when they would show Joe’s Apartment. But also I think those parties were the first place I learned to cook anything outside the confines of the kitchens of my immediate family or, indeed, the Dairy Queen.
I can’t remember who taught us how to make these, but I distinctly remember that mystery person was cooking something else at the table while giving us instructions at the stove: boil this, heat that, add some of that. It was crazy-cooking, I tell you. The kind of cooking that required no measuring spoons. I didn’t know what hit me.
But they were yummy. So I made them at home a few days later and everyone there agreed they where yummy. For a while they were that dish I was expected to make when we would have guests, and I must admit I have always thought it was pretty cool when people start to hope you’ll make something. (The Boy’s dad makes this rice in the summer and I go into mourning when it is too cold to have it any more…so if it’s a summer event and there’s not the rice…oh goodness, there will be disappointment. I just hope he is cool with that, because it is certainly meant as a compliment.)
I haven’t made them in ages, but when I read this I was taken right back to Melissa’s kitchen, so I went to get some little potatoes and try them again. They are still yummy. And they are actually even better reheated the next day, so perfect to have a few for dinner one day and a few for breakfast the next. And so easy:
*Wash small potatoes.
*Boil in skins until just soft.
*Heat a tablespoon of oil in a pan.
*Add the boiled potatoes (still in skins) and move around until coated in oil.
*Add salt, pepper and a handful of poppy seeds.
*Smoosh around in the pan until everything starts to go just a bit brown and crisp around the edges, then at that moment, stir in a spoonful of butter and mix around until all melted and absorbed.
*Eat.
And since I am still being a little nostalgic about France, it’s acceptable to pair it with this French-ish omelette (which I stupidly broke, so it is not very pretty). It is French because a) it is an omelette b) it contains a bit of Roquefort and c) it contains herbs de provence, which Ariel gave to us when she was living in Paris and I have used at least once a week ever since and still have plenty to go. Anyway, it was an ugly omelette but it tasted just like it did at the top of the mountain. Except it also had potatoes.
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