Wafer thin slices of potato dive from the mandolin, cascading into the hot oil with a raucous sizzle. My father brushes past my left shoulder. I’ve learned not to look, not to ricochet my head around searching for signs of him. He’s not there.
I hadn’t intended to post recipes on this site, but there have been so many requests for this recipe based on the photographs, that I’m deviating from the path.