But let me start this tale by recounting last year's potato misadventure:
My beloved gave me ten potato plants for my garden in the Summer of 2007. They grew and grew until one day I came outside and discovered that rabbits or squirrels had mowed down every last one. Once the process of photosynthesis had been properly explained to me, I stopped watering the stumps.
This year my beloved tossed two plants to me. She'd given up. They were an afterthought.
I planted them and surrounded them with barbed wire and look-out posts complete with alarms, kleig lights and miniature German soldiers that screamed "Halt!" at the slightest movement.
Thus they grew uninterrupted.
Thus they grew uninterrupted.
Yesterday she convinced me that it was time to start digging. I was afraid. Very afraid. I could only remember last year's Potato Famine and the specter of my hungry, howling children rose before my eyes.
But she was insistent and so she started gathering the vines:
And this is what we found:
We started screaming and saying, Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God!
I still can't believe how very big they are. I don't know what the neighbors thought, they probably heard us, looked out the window, lit another cigarette and returned to watching Paris Hilton's New Best Friend.
Digging those potatoes was very similar to giving birth although there was a lot less pain and a lot more dirt. But a very similar feeling.
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