Of everything except the items I just have enumerated I eat as freely as I please.

And when a person begins to reckon up everything else among the edibles--flesh, fowl, fish, berries, fruits, vegetables and the rest he finds quite a sizable list.
I shall not pretend that I do not pine often for sundry tabooed things.
Take pies, now--if there is any person alive who likes his pie better than I do he's the king of the pie likers, that's all.

And I am desolated at being compelled to bar out the rice--not the gummy, glued-together, sticky, messy stuff which Northerners eat with milk and sugar on it, but real orthodox rice such as only Southerners and Chinamen and East Indians know how to prepare; white and fluffy and washed free of all the lurking library paste; with every grain standing up separate and distinct like well-popped corn and treated only with salt, pepper and butter, or with salt, pepper and gravy before being consumed.
And as for white potatoes--well, it distresses me deeply to think that hereafter the Irish potato, except when I'm camping out, will be to me merely something to stopper the spout of a coal-oil can with, or to stab the office pen in on the clerk's desk in an American-plan hotel.

For I have ever cherished the Irish potato as one of Nature's most succulent gifts to mankind.

I like potatoes all styles and every style, French fried, lyonnaise, O'Brien, shoestring shape, pants-button design, hashed brown, creamed, mashed, stewed, souffle--if only I knew who blew 'em up--and most of all, baked _au naturel_ in the union suit.