“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.