A little while back, the folks from An Bord Bia’s Best In Season website asked if I would contribute a piece describing my favourite spud. As you can imagine, I had a thing or two to say on the subject, so I was more than happy to oblige. I’ve included a copy of the piece below for your reading pleasure. Not only that, but, if you’re up for even more in the way of favouritism, you can now become a fan of The Daily Spud over on Facebook or even submit some food blog award nominations over on Foodbuzz. When you’re done with that, come back here and I will present, without any further ado, my very own favourite spud.
He’s not a looker, bless him, but he’s one of my own. My very own Mr. Potato Head.
Oh the excitement!
The day which would see the eagerly anticipated unearthing of the first new spuds was finally here. Visions of tuberous bounty filled my head, as I grabbed the garden fork and gloves and sallied forth to the vegetable patch. Mentally, I had already applied steam, butter and salt to the first of many straight-from-the-garden spud dinners. Happy days.
I tackled one of the outer drills, where I had planted a new-to-me spud, Colleen, and which had been the first of the varieties planted to burst forth into flower. The foliage throughout the patch was lush, green and healthy-looking. The first few tentative probes with the fork yielded nothing and then, working the soil a little closer to the stalk, a yellowy tuber appeared.
Ah, there you are young spud, now, come to Momma...
We had lift-off. One potato, two potato, three potato…
It was a big weekend for me and my seed potatoes.
The spuds made significant progress on their journey to the dinner table by moving a few short, but nevertheless significant, steps from the shed to the new vegetable patch across the way.
For the vegetable patch, it was a grand unveiling of sorts. What had been a square of lawn had been manured and then covered for almost a year, giving the worms space to do the hard ground preparation work. All I needed to do was dig some drills, line them with manure and then relocate the spuds to their new home. No big drama. Or, at least, so one would have thought.
Tools of the planting trade
Off I went to the shed, where the seeds had been sprouting for some weeks now. In amongst the trays of sprouting tubers, I looked for the one that contained my three special rare and unusual specimens, which were to be given pride of planting place. They had been here, right at the edge of the bench but, could it be…? I caught my breath. They. Were. Gone. Noooooooooooooooo!