16
When Felicity and I were first dating, I was offered a film in the UK, which would require me to be there for four to five months. Because the kids were still young and I couldn’t be away from them for that long, they came with me. My parents, who are great company, and also great babysitters, joined us as well. Given the number of people in my entourage, I needed a rather large space. Felicity offered to find a house near her apartment in Notting Hill and help enroll the kids in a small international school for the remainder of the school year. Unfortunately the experience of making the film was a drawn-out, physically exhausting, joyless process only made bearable by a wonderful cast and crew. However, I remember the lengthy stay in a slightly worn town house in London with my family and Felicity, who ended up just moving in with us, as a truly enjoyable one.
The kitchen was in the basement, and though it was hardly up to date, it was workable enough. （Although I did have to buy almost a whole new set of cookware, as what was there seemed to have not been updated, or for that matter cleaned, since before the war that was supposed to end all wars.） Whenever I arrived home from work in good time, we always had dinner together, cooked by my mother, or me when I could sneak my way past her to the stove. One morning, we decided we would prepare a chicken or something of the like that evening for dinner. Felicity said she would roast some potatoes, and as we all love roast potatoes we thought this was a wonderful idea.
That evening as we drank our usual predinner cocktails and snacked on olives, prosciutto, etc., Felicity pulled from a paper bag a load of gorgeous yellow potatoes, peeled them, and placed them into a pot of boiling water. I asked what she was doing and she said, “I’m making roast potatoes.” I was confused because as far as I have always known, boiling is the opposite of roasting, but I said nothing. A while later I noticed her setting the oven to a very high heat and filling a roasting pan with what seemed like a gallon and a half of goose fat. Again I said nothing. When the potatoes were boiled to her liking, she drained the water, placed the top on the pot, and with oven-mitted hands, grabbed the handles with firm assurance （much in the way a pig farmer grabs the ears of a sow and drags it to slaughter） and shook that pot with a strength and vigor I didn’t know her slender frame possessed.
“I’m confused,” I said slowly. “I thought you were making roasted potatoes.”
“I am,” she said flatly, still rigorously at it.
“So, what’s that you’re doing right now?”
“I’m fluffing them up.”
“Oh,” said I, now even more confused.
I turned away to get a glass of wine and when I turned back, I saw that Felicity, having completed the fluffing phase, had opened the oven door, from which a plume of oily smoke billowed, and extracted the roasting pan of bubbling goose fat. My parents and I were doing our best not to panic as the room filled with smoke and Felicity gently placed the pan of scalding liquid avian flab onto the stovetop.
“Sorry. Bit smoky!” she said, laughing and sounding more British than ever, as we ran to open the windows and disarm the fire alarm.
“What the hell are you doing?” I finally asked.
“I’m making roast potatoes!”
“Like that?”
“Yes!” she said, irritation creeping into her voice.
“But, what’s all the oil?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
“It’s goose fat. And that’s what you roast them in! Just… relax.”
I noticed that my father was standing by the open door that led to the garden and was fanning away the smoke with a tea towel, and that my mother was standing in the kitchen doorway safely away from the roiling pan of fat, looking on with furrowed brow. Felicity then calmly took the potatoes, one by one, placed them gently into the pan, and slid the whole thing expertly back into the oven. There was silence for a moment.
“When you said roasted potatoes, I thought that you meant—”
“You thought I meant the way you make them,” she said with a smile.
“Yes. Just cut them up, a little garlic—”
My mother, having crept slowly back into the room, chimed in. “Yes, with garlic, olive oil, rosemary, and salt, and then just… you know… roasted.”
Felicity smiled and laughed. “Oh, yes, those. I love those but these are how we do them. English roast potatoes. They’re what you have with a Sunday roast. These and Yorkshire puddings. My nana taught my mother and me.”
“That’s how much oil they used?” I asked doubtfully.