The meeting leader asked if anyone want to share. I raised my hand.
“My name is Penny and I can’t bake a potato.”
“Hi Penny,” the assembled responded.
“I’m 69 years old and I can’t bake a potato. I’ve tried setting the oven to 350 degrees and cooking for an hour. I’ve tried 400 degrees for an hour.
“Small potatoes. Fist-sized potatoes. Big ones cut in half.
“Russets. New. Yukon Gold. Red.
“On parchment paper on a baking sheet. Right on the oven rack. In a baking dish. In the middle of the oven. On the side next to the main meat entrée. Microwaved in a cloth potato pouch.
“Coated with oil. Wrapped in foil. Pricked and stabbed. Left intact as God (herself) grew them.
“My baked potatoes efforts are a failure. They never cook thoroughly, not matter what I do. But in a variation on a theme, tonight’s potato exploded in the oven. The accompanying meatloaf was raw in the middle.
“My Mum wasn’t much of a cook but by God, she could bake a potato. The inside was light and fluffy, the skins had a substance and made tasty pockets for the salt, pepper and overly generous blocks of butter. It was like biting into heaven. We squabbled over who’d get to eat the skins abandoned on the plates of the fluffy inside-only eaters. Thank goodness they didn’t know the goodness they’d abandoned.
“Respectfully I don‘t want your recipe or instruction. I’d rather you bake one for me. I’tll buy a bag and bring the butter.
“P.S. To offer insight into my cooking style, the first time I made an apple pie I set the oven on ‘broil.’
“Thank you for letting me share.”
The Third Page 