That poor
little potato. It started out fine, loved the quiet start deep in the dirt,
loved life. Those bio-dynamic farmers gave it all it needed to grow, and it was
a happy potato. It had dreams of growing up and making lots of babies, what a
great hope to look forward to.
One day, the
farmers, Lori and Pete, pulled it from the dirt. Ok, this can’t be bad. This is
gonna be fun! Oh sunshine! WOW! Now among other potatoes in a bucket, ok. Maybe
we’re going to a concert or a movie or - - where? In the car to a market? How
fun to zip along the road, this is gonna be a great day, zoom zoom.
Now in a
little paper bucket, it liked being seen and admired by all the humans oohing
and aahing over it, even touching it! Yippie, they love me, it was sure it was
all about love.
Then the
murderer arrived.
Oh she
touched it alright, yes, fingerprints, take those fingerprints, she did it.
That otherwise kind and funny woman with green stuff in her hand. The little
potato got traded for that green stuff. Hmm, was this in the master plan? It
didn’t get the memo.
Now for
another car ride, it must be a trip to dirt somewhere, what else could this be?
Doom. Car
ride over. The sound of Doom is appropriate here.
Now a paper
bag in an old cookie plastic bucket? WTF? NO!!!!! Dirt, it wanted, needed,
craved dirt. So it waited, waited,
things have to turn around, this can’t be the end, can it? No. Hope prevailed,
this little potato pushed out some root hope, even the paper bag wasn’t gonna
stop it. Hell no, I’m gonna grow and have lots of babies, just get out of my
way, you lame paper bag.
Time passed.
More time passed. Other potatoes there in the paper bag died. It was awful. Our
little potato had to endure this sad scene. Maybe the dead ones will turn to dirt?
The last thing to die is hope.
It heard
conversations, something about mashed potatoes. WHAT? Oh hell no, not our
little potato, not gonna go there. Whatever mashed meant, it sounded violent.
Had this little potato ever done anything to deserve mash? NO. It was a lovely
little potato, well, now kinda shriveling and lots of bud hope, that damn paper
bag was holding it back from what it could do, will do, just get it to some
dirt! They’ll love me then; they’ll thank me for the wonderful babies I’ll have.
I’ll be in a movie!
Then it
happened.
Out of the
bag, thank God. Getting a bath, oh, that water feels great! So this is what
they call a kitchen. What’s up with all the red decorations everywhere? Like
some kinda theme thing. Ouch! Stop picking off my buds! STOP! I need those,
they’re my roots as soon as you put me in the dirt!
Minutes
passed, her phone rang, she left the red room, and the little potato could look
around and see all kinds of mysterious stuff. Salt? Who needs that? Does it
help stuff grow? Could they be friends? Our little potato nodded to the salt,
hoping for solidarity. Salt said nothing, just looked the other way.
Phone call
over, she returned and picked up a sharp knife. The end came quickly, almost
painless, and now the little potato lives in her. Lots of dirt in here! Start
the victory music!
