Potatoes

We have nearly forgotten; good potatoes—like good rice—have an exquisite and delicate flavor, a flavor of such fragile purity that only a breath of salt, a turn of the pepper grinder, and a chunk of sweet butter can fail to mask it.

A reviewer of my last book, commenting on a recipe that called for a firm-fleshed, non-mealy type of potato, complained that it was hard enough to find an edible potato, let alone one of such specific attributes. I felt that the remark was unfair, for I remembered delicious potatoes from my childhood and, on recent visits to American markets, although the plethora of potatoes that had been dipped in a ghastly pink dye was depressing, a substantial choice of different types of potatoes was, nonetheless, in evidence.