My sister has a complicated relationship with potatoes. As far as she is concerned, they are only acceptable in a few choice forms: French frites (no chunky chips, thank you, too potato-y), crushed with copious amounts of olive oil and salt, or diced and roasted with piles of crispy golden onions - an Italian speciality from our Nonna. All other preparations (such as boiled, roasted or mashed) are strictly hors de menu in our house. These predilections have perhaps had less impact on my family as they might your average Brits, due to our widespread ethnic roots. With Italians, Maltese(rs), Syrians and Greeks on one side and Iraqis on the other, rice, pasta and pitta have always made up the majority of our carbohydrate intake. (Although I do hasten to point out my allegiance to the flag via my wholehearted devotion to oats.) As a result, we rarely buy potatoes, that mighty staple of the Great British Diet.

In all honesty, I have never felt that we were really missing out. Quite frankly, enduring a year of university catering, in which potatoes appeared in all manner of horrendous guises three times a day, was enough to put me off eating them for a lifetime. I couldn't really understand the feelings of comfort and warmth that potatoes seem to generate in my countrymen and women. I mean, they're fine, but are they really worth getting gooey and emotional over?

After reading the umpteenth potato paean in a newspaper this May (when the food world goes weak at the knees over the arrival of the first Jersey Royals) I concluded that I probably needed to give the humble tuber a chance. But how to sneak them into the trolley without my sister noticing? And, more importantly, how to prepare them in a way that wouldn't generate noises of disapproval? I was stumped. And so, naturally, I did nothing. But two months on, and several days into my recipe challenge, I decided that enough was enough. It was time to bring spuds to the kitchen.

At the time, my sister was in the throes of revision, spending hour after hour poring over complex-looking medical textbooks. She told me on numerous occasions that meals were the highlights of her day. No pressure, then. I realised that the only way to make potatoes acceptable to her was to include them in a meal full of her favourite things, and, if nothing else, to dress them in a mixture so thick with spice and flavour as to render them practically unrecognisable.

An English meal was out of the question (far too conspicuous) and so, perhaps counter-intuitively, I opted for Middle Eastern. I have no recollection of eating potatoes with my Arabic relatives other than Aunt Bessie's Easy Roasties, so external help was required. I turned to Marlene Matar, a Lebanese chef who has recently published a brilliant anthology of Syrian food in English. The book features a recipe for a basic potato salad, describing it as the kind of staple dish that can be altered and played with to suit the tastes and larder of the cook.

Matar does not specify a type of potato, and so, in a nod to drooling food writers everywhere, I bought my first ever bag of jersey royals. The first problem was working out how many to cook: how to ensure that we were not left with piles of potentially unappealing leftovers to make our way through? It took an embarrassingly long time to decide, as, not being seasoned potato-eaters, we were unsure of how many we would eat. Eventually we came to a decision and I tipped them resolutely into a pan of boiling salted water, jammed on the lid, and waited. Watching potatoes boil is about as enthralling as watching someone painting a fence, so I turned my back on the stove and focused on the important bit: the dressing.



Middle Eastern food suffers from the connotation that it is extremely complex and full of obscure, hard to pronounce ingredients. While there are numerous dishes that really do require hours of hard labour in the kitchen (forming kibbeh, or rolling vine leaves, for example) many staple dishes are, in fact, very simple, relying solely on quality ingredients, one or two choice spices and fresh herbs. Matar's potato salad is no exception; the seasoning requires only cumin, allspice and Aleppo pepper, with plenty of lemon juice, olive oil, and a handful of parsley. It's ready in a cinch, and you can make it in the serving dish - ideal for those of us sans dishwashers.

Unfortunately, my ever-expanding spice collection does not yet extend to Aleppo pepper (nor ras el hanout, zhoug paste or noomi basra, but I'm working on it) and so I opted for Matar's helpful suggested substitute - paprika. The result was a terracotta-coloured dressing, ever so slightly smoky, with a nice bite from the cumin and depth from the allspice. I politely ignored the inclusion of chopped white onions, as, until I can guarantee as sweet an allium as those that are sold in the Middle East, I would rather spare myself the discomfort of tasting nothing else for the next 12 hours. The spring onions worked fine on their own, though, their sharpness foiled by the addition of diced red pepper.

Back on the hob, the potatoes gurgled and spurted out jets of starchy steam. Concluding that this was a sign they'd had enough, I drained them and set about the tricksy task of chopping them while still hot, flinging them into the dressing with red, blistering fingers. Upon tasting I decided (as I often do) that it needed more of everything, and so, with faithful recipe allegiance now thrown decisively out the window, I began to re-season it maniacally. Soon the potatoes had taken on a burnished red colour, their flesh softened and glossy in the oil. They certainly did not look like any other potatoes I'd ever seen, nor did the flavour bear any resemblance to the non-descript starchiness with which I associated them. Instead, they offered a creaminess and unexpected sweetness, contrasting nicely with the vibrancy of the dressing. It was a moreish and (yes, I admit it) surprisingly comforting combination.

To avoid total disaster should my sister not agree, I went overboard with the rest of the meal, serving the salad alongside wonky rings of aubergine, griddled and marinated with herbs, smoky-salty flat beans and a spiced lentil stew that I made up as I went along. We sat down, my sister's forehead wrinkled in mild distrust. She picked up the dish and inhaled. "Smells interesting," she said in her I'm-trying-to-sound-positive-but-what-on-earth-have-you-done voice. Ever cautious, she served herself a scant tablespoon of potatoes while I looked on nervously, face flushed and clothes spattered.

I am pleased to report that after careful consideration, my discerning diner agreed that, although boiled, these were potatoes like no other. There was nothing to be done about the texture (still a major sticking point), but the flavour got a resolute thumbs up. This I considered a victory, and perhaps an entry point into an exciting new world of potato-cookery. Who knows what delights are now in-store? "Don't go getting any ideas," she warned me, swiftly cleaning up her second portion. "I still don't like potatoes." But then she moved on to thirds, so I'm feeling quietly optimistic.