Transplanted

    Blue potato. Sweet potato. Red Potato. Yellow Potato. Boiled. Baked. Rarely fried anymore. Riced. Mashed. Roasted. Nutritional information logged.

    I went to the Farmer’s Market yesterday afternoon. It is not common in this region but once a year. How grateful I am it happens as it brings forth memories of the town I called home and its neighbouring farming communities. While there, I took in the sights of the few tables that remained. I chatted idly and made my through to the back where the tables, just hours before, had held the weight of a variety of locally grown fresh vegetables. Very little remained by the time I got there. Parsnips, with their pale yellow flesh, lay in stacks. Bunches of mini potatoes existed within the confines of transparent plastic bags. My attention, however, was drawn to the solitary five-pound sack of potatoes with the word “BLUE” crudely written on the back of the bag in dark blue uppercase letters.

    I lightly traced the outline of the word and couldn’t help but suppress a smile. I was transported back to a garden that witnessed many growing seasons just down from my Great-Uncle Ned’s house and across from my maternal grandmother’s house. My Uncle Pad (a moniker for Patrick) had a knack for growing blue potatoes. An abundant Fall harvest meant that he would share with my Dad as well as other family members. The results yielded numerous side dishes until the stock had depleted. Frankly, they were better than any available at the store. And while I don’t have an accurate temporal reference for how many autumn seasons he spent willing his crop to grow, the memories of his efforts remain. 

    I was shaken out of my brief reverie by a kindly volunteer pointing out some other vegetables on a side table and smiled in greeting. I carried the little five-pound sack and made my way to the table where the cashboxes and volunteers waited for compensation for the fruits of their labour. After the money had exchanged hands, I held the bag close to me as it was too awkward to dangle and carry by my side. As I moved past people and towards the exit, it struck me. The weight of four of those five-pound bags plus another quarter of a bag combined equals the pounds I have lost so far. It was a heady realization. One bag was awkward enough to carry - let alone more.

    I am comfortable in my skin and know there have been many changes in my physique through the years. I would be lying if I said I always liked the image in the mirror staring back at me. Reflections and pictures don’t lie. Plus, I am well aware that I am not the young twenty or thirty-something-year-old I once was. And while I lament how I am more than a number on a scale, I know the digits staring back at me before I began this new journey did not equate optimal health. Yes, any shape or size can fall to ill health at any time. That said, I am sure it was only a matter of time before some affliction would make its way to me.

    There is a sack of blue potatoes sitting on my counter. Within the next day or so, I will open it. Some will become a delicious side dish and offer a little reprieve from the many sweet potatoes I have eaten lately. One at a time, I will remove them from the bag. The little paring knife will gently scrape the surface of each.  As the peels fall, revealed will be the blue-veined flesh heavily contrasted against the starkness of the white.  The falling peels will remind me how there is so much beneath the surface.

    Once sliced, into the pot they will go. The boiling water will submerge the pieces as they sink and bob again to the surface. They will become soft and, before long, will be ready to be served. Potatoes are never complete without gentle mashing by a sure hand with a fork and a little pat of butter. With one taste, I know I will be transported back to the meals served and eaten at a sturdy oak dining room table so long ago.