Potatoes and Poetry


One of my potato plants

“Come for dinner,” I told Margaret, “we’ll have potatoes.”  We invited Ian too.  Two poets, me, Jon and a meal centered around the potatoes from my garden.

I wrapped my hand around the stem of the plant as low to the ground as I could get, then pulled.   A clump of roots filled with soil and small red and yellow potatoes came up.  More potatoes bubbled up from the ground from the disruption.

Then I reached my hand into the earth, fingers spread wide like a rake and sifted through the soil.  Up popped more potatoes as if they were just waiting to be asked.  I dug a little deeper, my nails scratching at the packed dirt.  Rock or potato?  The ones deeper down are the biggest and until I feel their weight in my hand I’m not sure which they are.

I fill the basket knowing I’ll send some potatoes home with Margaret.

The longer they stay in the ground the bigger they’ll be, but I like them new and small.  And I know Margaret does too.

We decided to add salmon to the menu.  Jon will help me clean the potatoes then I’ll roast them.  Margaret will bring a salad and Ian is bringing Olive Oil knowing it what’s we cook with. For dessert we’ll have Vanilla ice cream with blueberries from the farmers market.

We might even read a poem or two.

The basket of potatoes from my garden

6 thoughts on “Potatoes and Poetry

  1. That sounds like an absolutely wonderful evening meal! Good fresh potatoes, and fixins plus good friends, you can’t miss!!! Have a beautiful dinner!

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