A year of recognition
Finally, the body that would like to be a government has chosen a topic for The Year Of that shouldn’t offend anybody. I’ve known about this one for a few months, and in fact showed a printout of the appropriate page to a friend from Mexico. She couldn’t imagine why a world wide body would be celebrating the Pope. Error in her dictionary: we are now officially celebrating the Year Of The Potato.
An important crop; one that almost starved the cousins of my ancestors (I’m officially a pre-famine Irish); one that has brought the water table of the Island to its knees (fertilizer intoxication). A foodstuff that can be fired from cannons, made into moonshine, decorated into tiny figurines. Baked, mashed, fried, scalloped; the list is a wonderful tribute to the ingenuity of those that eat the same thing over and over and over again. Mix it with cabbage, carrots, turnips. Feed it to the pigs for great bacon.
In fact, it’s surprising that it took the UN so long to get around to recognizing the potato for what it is – a wonderfood. How many other things can be thrown into the corner of the basement for six months and then served up on the Sunday table? Even my dog like spuds.
The important question is “Did I eat any today”, and the answer is no. Our menu involved a chicken salad, and in the recipe I couldn’t find any excuse to integrate a few spoonfuls of Solanum tuberosum with all the other choices on my impromtu salad bar. Maybe tomorrow, when I can dust off a recipe for latkes or colcannon or something that requires dexterous use of a peeler. Wait; we have none left? Guess I had better get on over to the supermarket where I can have 4.55 kg (10 lbs) for the sum of $1.99 with no tax burden. That price won’t make the farmer rich, but it shows that the food merchants know where the real money comes from – butter and sour cream with chives.
