A friend contacted us asking for help digging up potatoes. "I'll pay you in potatoes." How can you argue with that? So we joined him early before the heat of the day set in.
It's dirty work digging potatoes, but the kind of relationship you have with dirt as a child. Just the sheer joy to be covered in it. In your lap, on your knees, up your fingernails. Once you get enough on you it shifts to just plain fun and you stop short of rolling around in it. Kind of like getting drenched in the rain. Once you get over the inevitability, it's kind of fun being soaked where you're standing(or running, if you're feeling adventurous). I'd like to think this playfullness is evoked from past years because I believe we're all born with it.
Then there is the dirt or soil itself, growing this food. It really is something I continue to(and hope I will always) marvel at. I sifted through walnut shells from time to time which were apparently buried there by the birds and squirrels. "Birds and squirrels are fantastic at spreadin' seeds of the plants." I thought on this for awhile. I passed an ant burial ground where I was told they pile their dead. "Peculiar behavior. They still don't know for sure why they do it." I thought on that for some time. Ants really are kind of incredible, aren't they? "Been doin' this a long time and no two years the same." That seemed as an exciting job description that I could think of.
These are the kind of thoughts that pass through when one is "pickin' up" potatoes.
And that's just in one row.
I found no coincidence in my sudden potato craving when we got home so I scrubbed up a few and pulled out a casserole dish.
In it I placed:
a bit of goat butter
a spoon or two of extra virgin coconut oil
fresh sprigs of thyme
fresh sage leaves
Combined together with a lid on in the oven at 450 degrees.
"Those are like apples. Taste the best right off the tree."
I'd say that's about right.