Today I struck a dilemma.
It was early, for some godforsaken reason my internal clock decided that 6:48AM was PRECISELY the right time to wake me up with a rather sudden “WHAT-THE-FUCK-HOLY-SHIT-ALIENS/ZOMBIE/DEATH-KITTEN/NAZI-INVASION” nervous twitch. You know the kind that throws you half a foot into the air when you’re about four seconds away from falling into a nice scrumptious sleep?
In my sleepy stupor, I decided that the best course of action would be to waddle out to the lounge room, flop onto the sofa, pull out the quilt that was über conveniently placed and open up my computer to read comics online.
Something I easily could have done from the comfort of my cosy, cosy bed.
Soon my stomach started to make the rumblies, so I heaved myself up, waddling to the cupboard to scrounge things together for some bacon and eggs.
Now here is where I reach my dilemma.
Recently my sister (who lives on a sort of hobby farm) was kind enough to present me with a great big sack of home-grown potatoes.
Delicious, carby, artery-raping potatoes.
Deciding to make some hash browns to go with my already super healthy bacon and egg breakfast, I reached down and stuck my hand into the potato sack, knowing that for a couple of hash browns I’d need a potato roughly the size of a tennis ball.
The potato I pulled out was the size of a small continent.
If it were any other time of day, and if my brain hadn’t decided to fuck me over with less than five hours sleep, I would’ve just put it back and grabbed a smaller one. But in my sleep-deprived state my mind saw it more like this:
This was the Lord and Saviour of the Potato Kingdom. There I was, half asleep, pant-less and disheveled, basking in the glorious light of this magnificent potato. I wanted to know its most intimate secrets. I wanted to take it on a nice romantic date and possibly take it back to my place for a nightcap. I wanted to sit next to it on the yellow couch as Oprah Winfrey congratulated us on our inspiring relationship.
I was ready to give up the chase and settle down with this breathtaking tuber.
I couldn’t let such a beautiful gift from the Heavens suffer such a mediocre fate as becoming hash browns. I couldn’t in all good consciousness be responsible for this potato’s downfall. The glory and divine mercy felt by this potato must go to a richer cause.
Lovingly, with the grace and care of handling a newborn baby, I tenderly placed the potato back amongst its brethren, before promptly grabbing another less-holy spud for my hash browns.
Which were delish-malish.