A Dilemma of Potatoes

Farmers' Markets can overwhelm some of us.

He sat there in front of a table

Piled with potatoes upon

A checkered cloth like one

Would see in a romantic restaurant.

I stood there marveling at how big

His potatoes were, stacked like stones

Of an ancient wall in Ireland

And thought of the LaRatte fingerlings

My husband had planted that spring.

He wanted to try something new.

The man looked at me standing there

Not begging - oh no - a farmer never begs

He had a product to sell, a good one

But nobody approached his table to buy.

I looked at the potatoes thinking

Of the fluffy warm flesh

Infused with butter

Salt and pepper, nothing more to hide

The rich earthy flavor of a russet

Whose skin rubbed with bacon grease

Would fold into my mouth

And melt with nutty goodness.

Paradise on a plate.

It was a simple equation really

One or two of these now

Or

LaRattes in autumn.

A vegetable bringing memories

Of home-cooked Sunday dinners

Or

A unique taste experience

This was indeed a conundrum.

I could have both!

The farmer's frustration

Sunk deep into my sternum

As I weighed the possibilities

He'd worked hard for the money.

I looked at the potatoes again

So huge and splendid upon

That festive tablecloth

And walked away.

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