Those who frequent Azahar’s myriad productions may have encountered the tortilla de patatas recipe that she put up in May. I used to know a diplomatic wife who prepared a version of this, which was the only dish in which I could even tolerate the presence of potatoes. I think American school lunches are to blame; in the late-1950s America of my childhood, every school meal involved a heap of gluey potatoes prepared in some Purgatorially bland way and a half-pint waxed-paper carton of milk, and if you did not choke these things down you were regarded as un-American, a Bad Child, and possibly doomed to a future of neurasthenia and depravity.
My memories of the tortilla were so seductive that I hastened to the local farmers market to buy potatoes and onions; last trip, they had vivid blue potatoes, which I comminuted with ordinary white and yellow ones before turning over the operation to my culinary engineer friend and a diligent feline assistant.
The tortilla was damned good.