I’ve had them baked, boiled and lathered in butter, stuffed with sour cream and bacon and topped with melted cheddar cheese. There's been baby potatoes, potatoes roasted in duck fat and mashed with cream and deep-fried and dipped in tomato sauce. They’ve been mashed and mixed with spring onions, which isn’t called mash but champ, Champ. They're ruffled, they're hand-cut and they're flavoured with salt and vinegar and cheese and chives and what even is a prawn cocktail?
I take a sip and agree, more out of politeness than any personal experience in incest. Apparently it’s a saying in New Mexico. I give them the benefit of the doubt. We’re sitting in Espinal, a small Spanish town at the foothills of the Pyrenees. I never once imagined I’d spend any portion of my life arguing about incest with an elderly American couple, but here I am. Drew & Annie are adamant that ‘kissing your sister’ translates as a weak wine. I argue that if anything, breaking taboos and societal norms and choosing to kiss your sister is an inherently strong move. Frowned upon, but ballsy nonetheless.