The first crack feels dangerous. You didn’t expect a potato to demand reverence, yet here you are, hovering at the edge of hunger and hesitation. The crust gives way with a sound like breaking trust, and suddenly the air is full of rosemary, salt, and something older than language. Awe floods in where appetite once stood, as if this simple, blistered thing has no right to feel this holy. You tell yourself it’s just dinner, just starch and seasoning and heat, but your hands move slower now, careful not to waste a single fleck of crisped skin. You realize, with a strange, quiet shock, that somewhere between raw and ready, between waiting and wanting, something in you has soft… Continues…
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