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| Fruits of our labors |
Yesterday Sierra, Jay and I all wound up at the garden at the same time. We ate Farm raspberries, fat in their seedy clusters; admired and picked Jay's peppers and tomatoes; brushed dirt off of carrots and bit into their crunchy, sweet meat. Then we moved on to potatoes.
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| Diggings up whites, reds and fingerlings |
Everyone should dig up potatoes at least once in their life. And I mean dig up by hand. There is nothing so satisfying as turning your two arms into excavating equipment; digging down deep past the surface, sun warmed soil, down into the cool, bug filled earth. As your hands drag back up towards the surface, like a swimmer coming up for air, you realize that without even knowing it, you've stumbled upon potatoes. Potatoes no bigger than a marble, huge ones, in-betweens, worm-bored ones.
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| I dug up all of these fingerling potaotes! |
And as you dig you begin to salivate, turning into a Forrest Gump of sorts, now listing off every way you want to serve your treasure: mashed, roasted, grilled, steamed, boiled, with Farm steak, with olive oil and sea salt... Potatoes are magical because unlike most of the other things grown nearby we can't watch their progress, can't comment on the damage done by bugs, by too much rain, by too much sun. Potatoes are a leap of faith--hidden until the leaves begin to die back--a surprise in their harvest.
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