A love letter to a baked potato

Dear Spud,

I am not sure if I first loved you, or you first loved me, but it doesn’t matter now. Why we fell in love is so far from the reasons we are still in love. Your perfectly baked, sea salt skin hasn’t ceased to be a delight, but it just matters far less now. What matters now is that I am convinced you are for me and not against me.

Never ever, not once, have you upset my fussy and increasingly unpredictable gastrointestinal system. You stand out among all foods as my stalwart food companion. I love you, Spud, and I’m sorry I have often taken your consistency for granted so many times in my 41 years.

We have eaten so many meals together and I never tire of your company. I hope we have many more meals together, although in time, I hope you start to bring some friends to dinner. I’m starting to think that you might be getting sick of me. Hearing me talk about all the foods I wish I were eating in addition to you cannot be easy. You’ve stuck with me like no other.

On Sundays, when I wrap you in your foil blanket, you remind me to tuck in the edges, just like you like it. I put you in the oven, but I don’t make you go alone. Today you were in such good company there was steam and hissing and much rejoicing among all of you. When you were finished baking, the whole house smelled like love.