Back when I was in university, one of my then boyfriend's roommates used to make home fries on Sunday mornings. Home fries were something reserved for greasy spoon diners; they were not something that ever appeared in my family's house.
And although those particular home fries weren't the most amazing in the world, they were certainly very comforting, if occasionally a bit crunchy.
See, the roommate always fried the potatoes low and slow for however long it took... Occasionally the onions would overcook and burn. Occasionally the potatoes would get soggy. But still, I loved them.
So this week, while Phil was writing his exam, I attempted my own home fries. I partially cooked a potato in the microwave first, cut it up into cubes and threw it into a pan with butter, olive oil, a large handful of chopped sweet onion and a good dose of thyme. Twenty minutes later I had crispy on the outside, soft in the middle and herbilicious homefries. The onions were on the right side of dark golden brown.
Topped with a fried egg (eggs are something loathed by my husband), I was supremely chuffed. They remind me of being 22 and thinking I was an adult.
It's funny. I'll be 31 soon, and, taking a page from my father's book, now I know better. Adulthood is not a number. It's a state of mind that I choose not to enter into.