... Let it go. If it
comes back to you, it is yours to eat.
Oh man, am I going
to eat some potatoes.
You see, prior to
our evacuating Fencebroke Promontory on the crest of the Great
Washing-Machine Flood of 2015, I had tearfully released several seed
potatoes into the wild.
“Go! Be free,”
I said. “This backyard life will soon chafe your russet skin. Go
see the world; visit Idaho. Get out there and make something of
yourself.” And then I shut the door and wept.
I've always wanted
to grow potatoes.
With time I came
to terms with my loss. I told myself every morning that those
fingerlings and reds would be happier, better tubers out there on
their own than if they set root in my humble garden. I never fully
believed this, but with repetition it took on the soothing cadence of
a mantra, and I was able to move on.
However, just in
case my prodigal spuds ever returned, I built a home for them: a
potato house. This would be a place to call their own, apart from the
sunup-sundown brawl of the vegetable garden, where they could stretch
towards the sun and have soil heaped upon them, the better to start a
family of tender new potatoes.
Even as I cut the
cedar boards, I knew this was just a dream. The potato house would be
nothing but a sad memorial for the starchy little ones I let go.
But I couldn't stop, and soon the house was complete and soon after
that we were forced to abandon Fencebroke.
Weeks passed. And
then, some untold time and countless omelets later, when we got the
“all-clear” to return, and when I had almost forgotten ever
slapping together that ridiculous, hopeless shrine in the first
place, I came home and saw this:
And once more, I
wept.
The potatoes, they
came back!
