At first, I didn’t consider our recent dinner of baked potatoes to be “blog-worthy.” It doesn’t involve a recipe, it wouldn’t be found in any food magazine, it doesn’t require any special or new cooking skills… you get the picture. It’s a baked potato, topped with everything but the kitchen sink.
But as M. and I were eating, we were so happy. We must have said at least three times, “I’m so glad I’m an adult,” and I think M. giggled in anticipation once or twice. The beauty of baked potato bar is that there’s no one there to tell you to not use so much butter, or to eat three bites of skin before you can be excused, or to eat your vegetables. I remember baked potatoes being a delicious treat growing up, but also a bit of a downer, because you had to eat that plain, dry skin since “that’s where all the vitamins are.” [@#$!* vitamins!]
Bacon, cheese sauce, butter, sour cream, chives, broccoli, hot sauce… the list goes on. Sure, we may have bills, and need to put gas in our car, and to set our alarms, but dammit, I’m going to use as much butter as I want.