A Christmas potato

I’m currently sipping gingerbread-flavour mulled wine, at room temperature, from a Glenmorangie-branded thistle-shaped glass.

I’ve just finished peeling the veggies for Christmas dinner. Part-way through the smallest potato escaped from the bag and fell to the kitchen floor.

So I apologised out loud and picked it up, promising to return it to its family and friends. They’re all peeled now ready for chopping for mashed & roast potatoes, everyone back together again, to fulfil their promise, their destiny.

Yes, I said that to the smallest potato, also out loud.

The smallest potato from the bag, peeled, nestling in a pan of water in the middle of the others, all of them ready for action. (Chopping, to start with).

(Apologies if anyone expected a Victorian-esque morality tale).