Last year we grew four rows of potatoes. A little ambitious perhaps, considering there are only two of us. But we wanted to grow white, red and gold varieties, and that started to add up. Actually this sums up our whole garden philosophy which is how it got completely out of hand and made me not want one this year, but when spring comes around I just can't help myself, especially when things pop up without any work like this chard, a gift from a failed planting last fall:
and the raspberries:
and the strawberries that we thought drowned while the garden was underwater this winter:
Also, we are slackers with weed control and, well, I have a lot of work to do. Those grass-covered humps that look like ancient burial mounds? They are were garden beds. Sigh.
Anyway, potatoes.
We planted all those potatoes and they all matured at the same time so my Love dug them up in early June and put them in the shed and instead of giving them away we forgot about them. Until September. After the 90-degree heat and humidity and long, light-filled days of summer which, unbeknownst to me has a radioactive spider transformative effect on potatoes, turning them into little green goblins of death! I'm mixing up my superheroes and villians here but you get the point. Green potatoes are not so good. This is why it is imperative to keep them cool and dark. From The Curious Cook, who explains it so much better than I could:
"Beware of green potatoes, and peel every trace of green away: that's been standard advice for decades, and for good reason. When potatoes are exposed to light, these underground tubers interpret it as a sign that they're no longer completely buried in the soil. So they produce chlorophyll pigments to help them make use of the light's energy, and they produce bitter toxins to discourage animals from eating them. The toxins, alkaloids called solanine and chaconine, are about as powerful as their better-known cousin strychnine. They apparently interfere with the structure of all our cell membranes and also with the processing of a nerve transmitter (they inhibit acetylcholinesterase), which can cause hallucinations and convulsions. Because the color change in a potato parallels its accumulation of alkaloids, greenness is used as an indicator of toxicity and therefore irreversible spoilage. It's estimated that around 15% of the US potato crop is discarded on account of greening."
Strychnine, people! I don't care if it is just a cousin. Strychnine!!!!!
I refused to eat them, but my Love pshawed and began to swagger out to the shed, thinking to bring in some green potatoes to eat on his own but I forbade him, in almost those words. Seriously, it got a little heated. Because I would not have him dying a hallucinogen-filled, toxic potato death. He thought I was overreacting. (Moi?)
However, I WON. No green potatoes were ingested and my Love is still with me, thank goodness.
***********************************************************************************************************************The potato lines run deep in my family and on the Shore in general. Around the turn of the century, and up until roughly the early 1940's the potato was king here. Almost everyone was growing them as potatoes love our sandy, slightly acidic soil (strawberries do, too) and it was a prosperous time. Then, as now, there were white potatoes and sweet potatoes and a variety of sweet which is supposedly unique to us called the Hayman. Raw, it is yellowish-white, but when cooked it turns a dull green and oozes a sticky black syrup. Sounds icky, but trust me, they are excellent with roast venison or sausage.
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My mom vaguely remembers a relative on her father's side nicknamed Potato George who, to put it gently, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Actually she said he was known to be a little crazy. I think he's also the one who had been hit by lightning and well, that might explain that. Or maybe he ate too many toxic green potatoes and thus the nickname? I don't know. I'm just speculating here.
***********************************************************************************************************************Also, my grandmother, who had lived here all her life, did not have a particularly strong Eastern Shore accent--not like a waterman or anything--but every once in a while she threw me off. Like whenever we had Sunday dinner she would announce that we were having "arsh potatoes." Since we rarely had potatoes prepared any way other way, I always thought that she was saying "mashed" potatoes. I was nearly 20 years old before I realized she was actually saying Irish potatoes, meaning "white," as opposed to "sweet" or "Hayman."
***********************************************************************************************************************Somewhere along the line I snagged my grandfather's World War I letters. My teenage, dramatic history-loving self was thrilled, imagining all the exciting and deliciously horrific details I would find therein, written in his own hand! He died when I was only 7 and was quite taciturn, though I didn't know if this was characteristic, or just because he was so ancient and you know, maybe his vocal chords had deteriorated or something. I had my brother scan the letters to preserve their wisdom for future generations and so I could read them over and over without touching them because human hand oil is death to old paper. And I just knew I'd want to study them because 1) they were old and anything old was interesting and 2) I imagined the letters would be a window into the mind of this man I never really knew.
And I suppose they were, in a way. Because I found that he was just as uncommunicative as a twenty-something soldier on the hellish French front as he was as an eighty-something retired farmer living out his final years on the tranquil Eastern Shore approximately 8 miles from where he was born. The letters, all 50 or so of them, can be summed up thusly: "Yes, mother, I am getting enough to eat and please tell my little brother to look after my potato crop." And to the little brother: "How is my potato crop?"
***********************************************************************************************************************Yep, we love us some potatoes.
And guess what? Our little green goblins of death have had a change of heart. They have redeemed themselves into little green shoots of life. Because we were too lazy to dump them back in the fall and now they have grown eyes and are ready to plant!
Even though I said I wasn't going to garden this year. Or ok, maybe just some lettuce and tomatoes. Alright, since they're there, maybe some potatoes, too.
You see where this is going.
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