In my endless quest to better myself, I fixed rosemary potatoes last night. No, they weren't all that good, but I think I learned something. One thing I learned was that I don't know how to chop fresh rosemary. But I'm one step closer to that elusive signature dish that I can take to parties. (Michael's bringing his rosemary potatoes. Yum.)

I found the recipe in the local hippie newspaper. Excuse me, I mean the North Bay Bohemian, the only newspaper I actually read any more (because it's free, and liberal, and weekly). I do read other newspapers on line, but I don't save my quarters for the Chronicle any more. Jon Carroll and the comics I can read on the sfgate site, and I'm boycotting the news until something good happens.

The (my) rosemary potatoes weren't bad. I figure that if I can perfect them I can convince people they're finger food, like glorified French fries. That's definitely how I ate them, although it would have been smarter to wait a little longer so I didn't burn my fingers. All in all, the experiment was probably a failure, but sometimes the greatest successes come out of failures. It's a good thing, too, considering.

Even if they were lousy (and they weren't that bad) my rosemary potatoes would have been better than most anything I've eaten since I got back from vacation. I can't seem to stop stuffing my face with everything in sight. I was doing so well before I left, and I will again, but I dread looking at the scale tomorrow. In fact, maybe I'll wait a week.