By Jane D. O’Donoghue
Special to PRIME
I had just begun to peel the potatoes for supper when I heard a tiny voice yell. At first I thought it was from outside and ignored it. I continued with my chore and the yelling grew louder. Someone shouted in a small but strident voice, ”Glory be lady, what do ye think ye’re doing?”
I stepped back and dropped the spud in the sink. That’s where the sound seemed to come from. As it lay there the words came again, more firmly, “Are ye about to be digging me eyes out with that knife?”
That did it. I left the kitchen thinking someone was playing a trick on me and I looked around for the culprit. After a search of the house, I walked back cautiously to the sink. There an innocent looking potato rested on the stainless steel. When I convinced myself that I was hallucinating, I reached for the peeler. Again, I was astounded to hear, “If ye plan on taking me brown jacket off, I must protest.”
Feeling foolish of course, I decided to play the game, if that was what was happening. Leaving the kitchen tool on the counter, I leaned down and spoke to the potato. (Please don’t ever tell anyone about this. I know it is crazy, but here I was talking to a partially peeled brown skinned vegetable).
I asked, “So tell me Sir, or Madam why are you making all fuss just because I’m trying to get dinner ready for my family and they love potatoes? Have I offended you?”
“Well Ma'am, my name is McDermott, or just Mac for short. Ye’d never know it, but we have the genes of the Irish Potato back to the Great Hunger. Our great-great-great-great-great grandfather left on a ship from County Kerry back in 1850. He was just a wee seed then hiding in a shawl unbeknownst to Patrick McDermott’s wife Mary. Miraculously, our field had been spared the blight. When they arrived here, the seed was discovered, Mary planted it safely in Westfield, Massachusetts. That’s how we became Americans.”
“That’s very interesting, yet why are you protesting to me now.”
“I was chosen to be a seed potato, not to be consumed. This means I must be in the soil. Here ye were digging out me eyes, when I should be quartered and planted. I have millions of cousins and some of us are chosen to keep the family going. I know there are lots of different groups with this common ancestry, but we’re the Irish clan.”
‘Oh come on now Mac, are you telling me I can’t cook you for dinner tonight?”
“Ma'am, if ye care about us, ye’ll set me aside. Take any other one from the bag and cut away, but save me, please. I beg you.”
“ I do have a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes. Are they safe to eat tonight? We do enjoy them with lots of butter.”
“Glory be, that would be grand. Go and have a feast. And don’t spare the butter.”
“How about potato chips?”
“There you go making a joke of me peril. Have the chips, they've already met their doom.”
“How about French Fries? Is that fair to ask?”
“Sure, the Frenchmen never did know how to treat a potato. What an insult. Imagine dropping them into hot oil, a sacrilege!”
“So, what would be fair game? How about the small red-skinned ones? They make wonderful potato salad. Or, boiled with their jackets on can be quick and easy. They also have great taste.”
“Alright lady, let’s get on with the cooking. Just place me in your refrigerator nicely packaged for keeping and I’ll say no more. Please don’t bring your knife near me again. I’ll thank ye for that and so will future generations of white, mealy Irish potatoes. And before it’s too late, call Mr. Mac”
“Okay, that’s a deal. Please, no more talking to anyone else. And never, never tell anyone of this conversation because I’m not sure we had it.”
“That’s Grand. We’ll keep it our secret.”
HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!
Jane D. O’Donoghue is a Hungry Hill native and retired school librarian. Her writing has appeared in local and regional publications.