Christmas Day, 1966 Michael would have slept longer, but the familiar stench of potato cakes had exacerbated his alcohol-induced nausea. He loathed the colourless fritters, for their greasy pungence, the destruction of his taste buds, and for what they represented—a childhood subsistence on a determinate nutritional regime in which the edible tuber ruled supreme, and not just any potato but the humbling Pontiac, the cheapest of the cheap. At Christmas, the household budget was massacred for a
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Posted on 12/24/2010