|Fruits of our labors|
|Diggings up whites, reds and fingerlings|
|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.