It’s almost moving time, so just now, it’s eatin’ all the food in the house time. I have vowed only to go to the grocery store for milk for my coffee, and I’m in the process of reaching far back into the cupboards to find…advancedly sprouted spuds. I will boil them and adorn them with the last of my dairy products, much to the dismay, I’m sure, of my foodie friends.
Now is the time of year when yuppie farm patrons and New York Times columnists alike begin salivating at each other across the table (which is decorated, no doubt, with a vase of freshly cut narcissuses) at the thought of asparagus, scallions, and rhubarb, those first fruits of the new growing season. And what crop’s praises are sung mostly sweetly from their lips? None other than the novelly named new potato!
Well I apologize, but I’m still using up my old potatoes—very old potatoes, and they aren’t Purple Peruvian Fingerlings, either. They look something like this, except in the Russet variety:
I’ve done my time in the soil and I appreciate the superior flavor of freshly harvested and locally grown produce, but I also have to admire the lowly, starchy spud from last season that’s been patiently sitting in storage, ever so slowly turning starchier and softer as it breaks down its own nutrients in the name of self-preservation and the hope of reproduction, until some poor student like me pulls it out of the cupboard, untangles its spindly sprouts and turns it into dinner.
It may be knobby and brown, it may grow underground in the dirt and muck, it may even be somewhat less than firm by the time I get around to eating it, but that old potato deserves some recognition. No asparagus spear could ever outlast it.