I’ve got a potato patch that will soon be harvested due to the lateness of the season. The nightly temps in northern New Mexico are edging toward that magic number where water freezes and plants’ cellulose delivery systems can no longer do their thing. The soil isn’t the most amenable to the forming of tubers as the previous plants that have been dug up have yielded nothing bigger than what you’d call new potatoes, although their disposition is of the more mature variety that have developed brown skin. Mini-bakeds, I think I’ll call them.
As I sit here scraping the pot clean of residual pepper-seasoned cheese sauce with my finger after all the macaroni is gone, listening to the sounds of an ocean storm on the headphones, I can’t help but be embittered by the disdainful gloom with which I sat in the designated parking slot waiting for my groceries to be delivered. The masked hordes filtered into the grocery store with seemingly no compunction because New Mexico’s half baked mini-potentate decreed mandatory masking. Cases are on the rise, though I have yet to personally or even second or third hand hear of anyone who has died from the plague that is, according to the journalists and politicians, continuing to ravage this once great nation.
The plant must be fertilized, From time to time With the fecund plop of manure To facilitate the maturation of all the developing potatoes Bullshit being the natural compound By which this propagation is done
Apologies to Thomas Jefferson, I’ve hit upon this providential parallel twixt my tubers and the malleable minds of men.