NASHVILLE — My run tonight pleased me, surprised me in that regard. I had eaten a great pile of fried new potatoes and onions;* they probably weighed close to three pounds before they were cooked. Less than two hours later, at about 9 p.m. Central, I went for what I figured would be a very slow and uncomfortable two-mile walk/jog. By the time I had adjusted to the chill, was warm enough to walk, I realized I was quite comfortable trotting along at what I gauged an 11-minute pace, so I ran out of town into pitch black on ancient, uneven pavement for 17 minutes, and then ran back for 15:30 (it was a little more downhill for the return) to cover what I guess was a little over three miles. It was a nearly perfect, easy little jog, topped this evening by nothing save those motherfucking potatoes.
*truly, I really mean it this time, the best plate of potatoes I have eaten, better even, believe it or not, than a plate the Vratils and I devoured in San Antonio six days ago. I fried these in a large electric skillet, set at 400 degrees, for a little less than 40 minutes, maybe 38. They could've been eaten 10 minutes earlier, but I let them crisp. It was almost four pounds of potatoes with three large, white onions, fried in a quart of canola oil. I have never seen my mother so surprised and delighted by any of my previous culinary efforts. The secrets: make way more than you think can be eaten (we ate them all), fry them at a slightly lower temperature than seems appropriate (400 was as high as the skillet would go), and remain patient.
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