Spuds! How excited I was.
I expected to be a little smug just with my own cleverness for producing carbohydrate from mud. Mud in a pot, no less. But there’s more.
The harvest was gleeful.
Turns out that the container approach has many advantages. I let the soil dry out, and pulled the stalks off. And then we played lucky dip in the sawdusty compost – delving around blindly, until we seized on a prize. Hee hee, we cried!
Then out they came - as shiny as eggs.
I’m often deterred from cooking potatoes by the need to rinse and scrub scrub scrub, then dig out a thousand staring eyes, and then spend half a lifetime picking bits of peelings out of the plughole. But not with pot pots. I barely needed to introduce them to the tap.
I’ve lurked jealously on the fringes of other blogs as they tasted their first new potatoes of the year, but was determined to wait my full twelve weeks. And on the 7th day of the 12th week, I cooked potatoes and saw that they were good. Boiled for 15 minutes or so, bashed a bit, dotted with thymey, garlicy butter, and roasted in the oven for another 40 – then shared with friends.
Loving the potato for itself
And I now see the spud in a new light. Previously, I have marveled at their subterranean activity and valued them as a filling carbohydrate accompaniment to real food, but I see now that I never really respected them in a culinary way. “You just want me for my body” they’ve said accusingly, before I poked out the look of hurt in their eyes.
This time it’s different. Overall, my cooking’s a bit mixed – veering between anxious fussing, and we’vegotanicebottleofwine-whocaresabouttiming-neglect, seasoned with enthusiasm and total ignorance of technique, but these potatoes could do no wrong. Perhaps it’s the flavour of home-grown glee, but He-who-lives-with-me has mentioned them, unprovoked, on three separate occasions since – and I think he dribbled a little.