In the land of golden spuds,
where the butter freely flows,
A kilogram of potatoes,
shaped into barrels,
they transpose.
Half the butter melts away
in a pan on medium heat;
The potatoes join the dance,
turning gently,
20 minutes in the oven—
browning neat.
A sprinkle of salt, a dash of pepper—
to the dance they lend their flavour;
The remaining butter joins the fray,
a taste for tongues to savour.
The dance concludes:
the spuds are tender,
their golden skin agleam;
Garnished with fresh parsley,
like a dream within a dream.
Now ready for the ball,
by the side of roast chicken—
what a call.
Feb 12
Feb 12, 2026 at 3:30 PM UTC
In the land of golden spuds,
where the butter freely flows,
A kilogram of potatoes,
shaped into barrels,
they transpose.
Half the butter melts away
in a pan on medium heat;
The potatoes join the dance,
turning gently,
20 minutes in the oven—
browning neat.
A sprinkle of salt, a dash of pepper—
to the dance they lend their flavour;
The remaining butter joins the fray,
a taste for tongues to savour.
The dance concludes:
the spuds are tender,
their golden skin agleam;
Garnished with fresh parsley,
like a dream within a dream.
Now ready for the ball,
by the side of roast chicken—
what a call.
I love blending cooking with poetry, turning favourite dishes into little stories. The Ballad of Chteau Potatoes celebrates the simple joy of buttery, golden spudsdancing in the pan, crisping in the oven, and taking their place beside a perfect roast chicken.
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