It’s just a fact. If you don’t love these, it’s over between us. The dialogue will stop. Okay, it’s been sort of one-sided up until now anyway, but these potatoes are defining. They are comforting. They are easy. I’ve been cooking them for years. Believe me, they taste fabulous. You will thank me later.
I can eat these potatoes three times a day. But they are meant for dinner. Still, I bring this up because the potato is one of the few vegetables that people feel comfortable with in the early morning hours. Most people hear the word eggplant and see the sunrise and feel the need to go back to bed. Which is to say, you can make these potatoes for dinner and reheat them in the morning in a skillet with your scrambled eggs and we have what is known as a slice of heaven. This is not something most people want to do with eggplant parm.
Which leads me to mustard. An underachiever. In so many ways.
Now we know, from experience, that the potato is simply a vehicle for a sauce, an oil, or a spice.
This recipe takes advantage of all three propositions.
I love Austin, Texas. The people are warm, the food is amazing, and the weather – well, let's not talk about the weather. Let's stick with the people and the food. One morning while Jeff and I were eating breakfast at an Austin eatery, we started chatting with a lovely elderly couple next to us. The conversation quickly turned to food: we talked brisket, chili, Shiner bock (which they drink from the bottle), and cornbread. When I told the wife that I had never made corn bread in a skillet, she replied, in a dramatic affected Southern accent, "Well, dahlin', if it ain't made in a cast-iron skillet, then it ain't cornbread." 
Have you ever had bananas in your kitchen that were so black and shriveled, you almost threw them out? It's happened to me so many times. Day after day I I tell myself I will make a batch of banana muffins. And finally, the day arrives when I actually pick up the deflated bunch of almost unrecognizable fruit and head for the door, with intentions of taking them out to the woods for animals to enjoy. But, I just can't do it. So, this week, I squeezed the mushy fruit from its shriveled, dark skin and stirred it into a rich mix of cream cheese, sugar and eggs to make cheesecake.
The year was 1996. I had just moved to San Francisco from Chicago,
finally ridding myself of those long midwest winters and trading them
in for even colder summers in the Bay Area. All joking aside, it was an
eye-opening experience for me and one that I embraced fully. I absorbed
the California experience on every level and tasted my way through the
City, spending Saturday mornings at the old farmers’ market before it
moved to the Ferry Building and familiarizing myself with local foods
and personalities.
Wowzer. That's all I can say. Dad is going to love this one! But then again, why wait until Father's Day, have it tonight.