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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

a poem

Sometimes I like the reddish with black eyes,
Or the slim smooth white ones
The dark round ones can be surprisingly soft. If you handle them right
Sometimes the tiny on are fun, not much fuss. They don’t try to impress
The mixed ones don’t come cheap. I now remember the burly rough ones. With thick brown skins. Don’t see them anymore.
I loved their tough exterior, inside, soft almost powdery

Fry them
Roast them
Bake them
Boil them
Mash them
Roll and spice them
I love them all
Long live potatoes

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