Potatoes are supposed to be in the ground by Good Friday, whenever Good Friday happens to fall that particular year. So I'm late, and I really wanted potatoes this year. Nice red or white potatoes, or yellow or brown, for that matter, as long as I have potatoes.
Potatoes are the first vegetable I grew; they sprang from the first compost heap I ever had, when I lived in St. Cloud, Florida, in the mid-1980s. They were an accident, what I later came to know is called a "volunteer." The potato peelings I tossed down, with egg shells, coffee grounds, and whatever else kitchen scraps I had, and they sprouted. I noticed the funny-looking leaves, different from anything else growing there, and one day there were little "new" potatoes all around this strange volunteer plant.
From there, I realize today, must have come my desire to grow my own food.
So I'm late growing potatoes this year. But it's been bugging me, and today I took the two old, moldy yams ("sweet" potatoes) out of the refrigerator's crisper bin, cut out two likely-looking eyes, chopped the rest into chunks, buried the chunks by the compost, and took my two likely-looking eyes to a bare spot in my garden, and planted them.
14 July 2009
at 7/14/2009 02:44:00 PM