They say all fiction writers are either plotters or pantsers and I’d say the same is true of cooks. There are those of us who research, shop for, and follow a recipe and then there’s me.
This morning when E came into the kitchen he saw the steamer basket of my rice cooker bursting with sweet potato wedges and asked, what the hell are you going to do with all that? To which I replied, “I have no idea, I just thought I’d cook them and see where the day takes me.”
So far, the day has taken me through your standard set of emails and mundane adulting tasks, each one punctuated by the mixing, stretching and folding of a strikingly orange sweet potato sourdough. My love for touching dough is second only to my love for not sitting still and well, baking bread throughout the day kind of guarantees it’s going to be a good one.
Half the cooked potatoes are still sitting in the fridge, and while my brain hasn’t settled on a definite plan for them, the current frontrunner is breakfast for dinner— puree them with oat flour, corn starch, an egg, LOTS of sharp white cheddar, a lil butter, some green onions and bake them into waffles topped with fried eggs, chili oil, and Greek yogurt.