Mr.Q has this idea in his head that he needs to take me to Ireland someday. Now, I wouldn't argue if someone handed me a ticket! But if I were planning my dream trip, it would be to Italy. He has this romantic notion of me wandering the Irish moors in a wool shawl, singing mournfully in Gaelic. I have a romantic notion of myself wandering through the sunny Tuscan hills, gesticulating wildly as I practice my newly-acquired Italian vocabulary.
This upsets his preconceptions of me. His regular argument, offered pleadingly and often: "But you like potatoes!"
Well, yes. Yes, I do. I also like tomatoes and basil and garlic and pasta and cheese and olives and bread and margherita pizzas and wine and gelato and espresso and....(Did I mention the cheese?)
However. I have a shameful little secret that I need to confess. Please don't tell him! But on a cold, wet night, sometimes the best prescription for pre-winter blahs is a big bowl of boiled, buttered potatoes for supper. Maybe with a little (!HAH!) grated cheese on top. Washed down with a bottle of Strongbow. (Yes, I know it's English, not Irish, but once you're all the way over there, why not visit?)
But really. You must be able to get potatoes in Italy. Can't you?