The fact is that my potatoes, so far, are really quite small.
There is no shame in small potatoes, of course, but, frankly, there’s just less of them to eat.
Undaunted by matters of size, I gathered together a dinners-worth of new season potatoes from my garden for my parents last week. Ma tells me that, when she was growing up, her family liked their potatoes big and piled high in the centre of the table – small potatoes, or póiríní, were strictly for feeding to the pigs. I was glad that my recent ancestors didn’t resurrect themselves for dinner in that case, as we had a rather low mound of spudlings on offer. Size clearly didn’t matter to my Da, though, who polished his spuds off in short order and was the first to ask, Oliver-Twist-like, for more.
After dinner, he retired to the sittingroom.
Da: “That was a grand dinner.”
Ma: “It was, sure.”
After another minute or two:
Da: “Are there any potatoes left?”
Da: “Do we have any for tomorrow?”
Da: “Oh.” The disappointment palpable.
Small or not, it’s good to know that my spuds will always be welcome at home.
Better get to work on my next delivery, so.