Potatoes

It must be in my Irish genetic code. I adore potatoes. Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, oven fries, twice baked potatoes, potato chips, potato crisps, mashed-rolled-into-a-ball-then-fried potatoes.Tatter tots? No, tatter tots don’t count. They aren’t really potatoes, just something that used to be white that got fried. And, pom frites. I love the way the French speak of potatoes… pom de terre… apples of the earth. It sounds so pretty and edible. Like eating a potato is a gift from Gaia presented on a tilled garden platter of plenty. So delicious. so satisfying... Apples of the Earth. Lovely.

The Scots are particularly good with potatoes. I thought I had died and gone to heaven one cold winter day in Edinburgh when I stepped into a shop for a cup of tea… it was about three o’clock in the afternoon, the shop was just setting up for tea as only the Scots do. Tea in Scotland is really dinner, just earlier in the day. I looked around letting myself adjust to the dim light. There before my grateful eyes cafeteria style were trays and trays of every kind of potato one could imagine. There were sausages too and one meager tray of something green but they were insignificant. It was the potatoes people were coming for. I filled my plate and sighing with deep satisfaction drifted to a table and chair.

Jesse