It’s springtime at my place.
Now that Jake is home, my goal for 2012 is to become a more accomplished gardener (read, the muscle is home), so Jake and I called over Bill, our neighbor and resident “spud expert” for planting advice. Bill has been growing potatoes his whole life and harvests enough each summer to last an entire year.
See that thing I’m holding? It’s not a headless, de-feathered chicken. It’s a sweet potato. From Bill’s garden. He gave it to me several weeks ago and I still can’t figure out what to do with it. Except maybe carve it and stick a burning candle inside it like a jack-o-lantern.
“Oh, that’s smooth,” I said. “Real smooth.” I handed the jar to Jake. “I already feel drunk. Am I drunk? Here, hon, take a hit of ‘shine.”
I looked at Bill, like I too was part of the bootlegger operation. Bill stifled a smile.
“It’s so smooth,” I said, smacking my lips. “Yeah, I’m drunk. I feel so free. And it tastes like there’s no alcohol in it.”
Bill flicked his three inch ash, and smiled. “That’s ’cause it’s iced tea.”
Like I said, springtime at my place.