My Life With Potatoes
Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven--the Pillsbury Ad Man
What I say is that, if a fellow really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow. A.A. Milne
Up until the point of my making this charcoal drawing, my life with potatoes had been as ordinary as the next lump’s.
My mother, bless her 50’s housewife heart, brought me up on Pillsbury Instant Mashed Potatoes—dehydrated potato flakes she mixed with hot water, whole milk, and a stick of butter.
My mother but the z in ziti, but when it came to potatoes, she liked her short cuts. “A girl has to have a few secrets from her husband,” the housewife on the Pillsbury ad said.
When I was 10, I loved them.
Mom ladled a big spoonful of her secret onto my plate, I leveled it out with my fork and dragged the tines across the surface to make crop lines in a snowy field. Then I ate the field in the OCD way, square section by square section.
On special occasions, we had flank steak, and then Mom baked real potatoes in Reynold’s Wrap. She cut through the aluminum, squeezed the potato open, put a pat of butter on each steamy side, and we ate.
Occasionally, I’d bite into a little piece of aluminum foil, the silver filling in my tooth contacting the shred of aluminum to create a tiny, galvanic shock. Very unpleasant.
In my 20s and 30s, when my wife and I were still poor, I returned to baked potatoes with a new appreciation. We dressed them up with broccoli, bacon, and melted cheese, or we chopped them up with scrambled eggs and veggies, and we ate them as a main course.
In my 40s, I mostly scorned potatoes. They were strictly for peasants, I thought, with a tendency to add peasant girth to my waistline. By my 50s, however, I had reached a level of economic prosperity that enabled me to turn potatoes into art.
I drew them.
I arranged them in a suitably earthy ceramic bowl, then spent an hour trying to get the feel of their tuberous forms—something of their under-the-soil life with bulbs and corms—onto the paper.
I felt my way over the contour of each one using my Conte Crayon, shaded in the soft shadows moving over the forms and the hard shadows they cast, and fit them all together into the composition.
I was aiming for beauty, the Platonic idea of potato. I missed my mark, certainly, but having the mark may be what really matters.
Potatoes have accompanied me on my entire life’s journey. They have been my playmate, my partner, and my inspiration, ferrying me across life’s most difficult transitions.
And if I should find myself some day in an old age home, my toothless maw able to chew only the old Pillsbury Instant, I shall sing their song with happiness in my heart and remember that
Nothin’ says lovin’
'Like something’ from the oven.
And Pillsbury says it best.
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https://youtube.com/shorts/nYHQK1Ltnh4?si=UhGwUgnP9rmE7qnI
Lots to love here, starting w the exceptionally validating connection between love of potatoes and strength of character. Makes me feel GOOD. I have a lifelong love relationship w the P. Mom was particularly skilled w em, and though I knew they were vastly preferable to instant mash, I loved the mash too, also drew crop lines w my fork, but worked through the “field” as if I were a ruthless bulldozer.
My first job was picking tobacco at age 12, often next to potato farms and when nobody was looking I would steal a few, polishing them on my horrendously filthy pants and eating raw. Eventually I decided to plant a few and that became a long lasting tradition. I don’t need em fancied up, though I have egads of good tricks to elicit their playful side. In fact, breakfast was a killer hash using the last bit of Dt Patty’s corned beef and a handful of yellows that a gardener gave me when I met em on my walking commute. Mostly I have em around in the classroom, often cooking a bunch and handing around randomly in classes and the hallways, especially appreciated on cold days when the heaters aren’t working. I have converted thousands who previously thought they didn’t like potatoes, but now know to love the comfort aspect, the lack of packaging involved, the Whole Foods nature of a nutritional staple that doesn’t have to be purchased at Whole Wallet.
Nice job on the drawings!
Just got reminded of a blissful solution to nearly freezing to death one December in Amsterdam (no money for lodging and not much for food), spending hours gazing at Van Gogh’s The Potato Eaters, making a beautiful connection that led to a most memorable and lovely first and only one-night stand.