I shared a two-bedroom apartment with way too many roommates and it was the first time any of us had lived on our own with no parents or cafeterias to cook for us.

You could say it was a learning experience.

I was the most food adventurous of the group so I would often be the one in the kitchen whipping up something for everyone, even though I had pretty limited technique and knowledge of ingredients. And very little money. We were all flat broke and shopped exclusively at Food-4-Less for the cheapest ingredients we could find. One of the best deals there were the 10-pound sacks of potatoes that sold for under a dollar. God bless the Northwest!

But our knowledge of what to do with the potatoes was limited to mashing, baking and frying them into a (usually undercooked and greasy) hash. Once we’d had our fill of these starchy delights, we pondered other directions for our cheap potato bounty. One night, one of my roommates with a sweet tooth and a weak grasp of chemistry wondered aloud how long it would take for the starches to break down into simple sugars.

“Carbohydrates are just, like, sugar, right?”

“Potatoes are called pommes de terre in French,” offered the literature major. “That means apple of the earth.”

“I love sweet potato pie,” I jumped in. “Maybe I could make a sweet and potato pie!”

The potatoes were sliced thin and slathered with some cheap jam that came in a bucket. I layered them lovingly in a baking dish and dotted them with butter (or, if I’m being honest, margarine). I sprinkled the top with cinnamon and brown sugar and set it to bake for, oh, 2 hours or so at about 350.

Everyone gathered around to taste the resulting steaming purply-brown concoction. Once we chiseled a small corner out, we each took a bite… and discovered that the French must be a very poetic people if they are capable of tasting a potato and thinking of an apple because this was monstrously bad and nothing like the sweet pie we’d all envisioned.

That year I figured out much more appetizing frugal recipes like dals and curries, frittatas and lasagnas, soups and stews. I also created some other ill-advised culinary beasts – usually involving ramen noodles. But what I will always remember is the lesson I learned that day: potatoes are not apples, no matter what the French say.

And by the way, drive thru restaurants don’t allow you to wash your hands from the car. You can drop that lame excuse!!

Also if you get cart food dont bring that food to another restaurant and eat at their table. I witnessed somebody bringing in a burrito to Kenny and Zukes, when asked to leave ( did not buy a drink, only wanted water and a napkin ) they were offended – are you kidding me?????

But the carts are great. They just need to remember that Portland is a clean city.

The morning after driving 9 hours from London to Onich, Scotland, I was famished. I knew my usual “coffee and toast” for breakfast wouldn’t cut it, so I opted for the Full Scottish Breakfast. I had a vague interpretation for this breakfast prior to ordering it. I knew it was big; I knew it had more meat than what my stomach’s monthly consumption was used to; and I knew it had a few recipes with foreign names. Fried haggis. Black pudding. Back bacon. Oatcakes. I just thought to myself, “When in Scotland, do as the Scots do.”
I ordered the Full Breakfast. The coffee and toast were good – they certainly know their Marmalade. I looked around me and spied a few visitors in the lodge eating a very simple tea and toast, possibly cereal, breakfast. My fiancé ordered the same as me, with a few variations of styled eggs and opted for tea over coffee. The food came and my stomach growled with a low burliness to the waiter as if to say, “Thank you”.
I poked and prodded.
“What is this anyway?” I pointed at a brown pool of what looked like minced beef, with tiny little white balls.
“Try it and find out,” my fiancé said in his English accent.
“It looks a little unappetizing.”
“You can’t go to Scotland and not have Haggis. It’s like going to Paris and not seeing the Eifel Tower.”
I saw his point. I scooped a spoonful in my mouth and chewed. At first I couldn’t really tell what it tasted like. It tasted like meat. My impression of meat, anyway, is not held in the fondest light. Asked to be a connoisseur for a rib-eye steak versus filet mignon, I would fail miserably. Is there even a difference? I was thinking these very thoughts when suddenly every single one of my ten thousand taste buds were finally connecting to my brain and every message was saying the same thing: the Horror!
My face contorted, scrunched up, and I tried in all matters of vanity to keep a sensible face. I was a foreigner in a beautiful village surrounded by some of the friendliest, robust people I had ever met. And here I sat, the rude American, choking on her food in complete disgust, wanting to spit every gram and grain of everything in this so-called “recipe” … out.
To give you an idea of my impression: simply put, and this is all only in matters of personal opinion, it tasted like meat soaked in blood with onion, spices and grits.
It took me a minute to calm down before I looked at my fiancé and asked,
“What exactly is ‘Haggis’?”
“It’s sheep organs. The heart, liver and lungs. I’m not a big fan of it either.”
The rest of the Full Breakfast was delicious. Huge, but good. I had come down from our room to the Lodge’s tea room famished. I left with an experience I will not forget and a full stomach.

fair or unfair people like it the food is good and the price is right.