I have a potato patch about a yard square, and I had a great time harvesting my spuds yesterday. I filled a large basket, with more to come: there's still one more plant whose leaves haven't died back yet. I grow just your average spuds, no fancy colors or shapes, but my friends are amazed, as if I must be a real child of the soil to grow my own potatoes.
You bury sprouting potatoes from your pantry. They grow. Nothing to it!
Digging potatoes reminds me of a birthday game when I was a kid, before birthday parties became so elaborate and expensive. My mother would fill a big tub with sand and she'd bury little presents in it (exactly what the presents were has been lost in, uh, the sands of time). But I do remember that my guests and I would have a great time digging away with shovels and sieves, like archaeologists.
My mother also had difficulty getting the layers of cakes to stay in place, so she'd secure them with toothpicks. Whoever found a toothpick in his or her cake got a prize!
Once again, I've forgotten what the prize was; it was the finding that counted.
No comments:
Post a Comment