I think everyone who's spent any time away from home has something that, if they make it, reminds them of home. For me, that's mashed potato.
I know, I know. Of all the fantastic food Britain has to offer (roast dinners! fish and chips! marmite!), and I pick the humble spud. Well you see, the reason lies in the fact that my dad makes, to my mind, the best mashed potato. Ever. It's creamy, it's buttery, it's smooth without being that odd, whipped texture of the mash we used to get in the States - frankly, it's perfect. With spring onion stirred through it to make champ, or used to mop up sauce - I love, love, love mashed potatoes.
Obviously, there's only so much "mashing" you can do when all you have is a knife and fork, but I refused to go the pretentious route and just call it "crushed new potatoes" and be done with it. It was mash or nothing. So that's what I had. I'd apologise for there not being a picture, but there's a limit to how attractive you can make a plate full of mash, sausages and tomato sauce look. That and I ate pretty much all of it before I even entertained the notion of taking a photo of it. If you really wanted, you could have a picture of my smug face after having eaten it because I am feeling very very smug. As I wrote on a friend's facebook:
"Just had mashed potato as part of my dinner. There are no words to express how happy I am right now."
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