The potato
I wish potatoes grew in hanging baskets.
to hang in the air suspended. So Its triumpth can then be seen by all. Others have seen the goodness of the potato and have disseminated it through its many names. Jersery royal, King Edward, Lady Balfour, Desiree, Maris piper, to name a few, raise the ugly brown lump into realms of state banquets. to sit in front of audences with painted monarchs who tear at it with silver.
The potato. A humble fruit of the soil, demands very little. Moist dirt and darkness are it requirements, either in the foot hills of the Andes, or drums of compost in Woking, the potato will indomitably carry on. I imagine its many starchy tubers swelling like primodial gods pushing soil and stones aside.
So I raise a drink to the potato, lets toast to its health. For even though it is a hardy plant, its rewards are quick to spoil. lighty furred sprouts with pointed ends wriggle out and the odd vain of mold running through remind me that I should treat the potato well. give it it's funeral of oil and salt, butter and mint. to be served with sausage, covered in gravy and blown kisses when hot, rather than the unfulfilled end in the bottom of a cupboard.
to hang in the air suspended. So Its triumpth can then be seen by all. Others have seen the goodness of the potato and have disseminated it through its many names. Jersery royal, King Edward, Lady Balfour, Desiree, Maris piper, to name a few, raise the ugly brown lump into realms of state banquets. to sit in front of audences with painted monarchs who tear at it with silver.
The potato. A humble fruit of the soil, demands very little. Moist dirt and darkness are it requirements, either in the foot hills of the Andes, or drums of compost in Woking, the potato will indomitably carry on. I imagine its many starchy tubers swelling like primodial gods pushing soil and stones aside.
So I raise a drink to the potato, lets toast to its health. For even though it is a hardy plant, its rewards are quick to spoil. lighty furred sprouts with pointed ends wriggle out and the odd vain of mold running through remind me that I should treat the potato well. give it it's funeral of oil and salt, butter and mint. to be served with sausage, covered in gravy and blown kisses when hot, rather than the unfulfilled end in the bottom of a cupboard.
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