Hardly a recipe.

They sat in the pot, simmering away for probably half an hour.

Blop, blop, blop they went, which is the closest I can come to describing the sound of simmering.

I waited until they began to break down, like glaciers in an Al Gore documentary.

Then I drained them over the sink and all the steam rushed up and misted the double sash windows looking out over the back garden and for one minute, the new ornamental pear just coming into leaf was all pixillated green.

Then I tipped them into the bowl, still steaming.

I sat in my favourite chair and sat the bowl on my knee and took up my fork and tasted one. Heaven.

I ate six. It was my first meal for a day and a half.

Well-boiled potatoes with absolutely nothing on them except the merest whisper of salt. So plain. So obvious. So delicious.

Sometimes you have to go back to basics, if only to appreciate everything else.