She loved potatoes. They called her the potato queen of the Tetons. She mashed them, baked them, twice baked them, scalloped them, made them into hash browns. Whenever anyone was feeling down, you could count on her being there with a basket of the finest potatoes you’d ever seen. She wooed the young men in town with her potatoes au gratin, but when it came down to choosing between them or her potaters, she always sent her suitors packing. She ate so many potatoes that one day, she turned into a potato--a literal, giant potato. No one tried to eat her—she was, after all, still a member of the community. Rather, they all pitched in whenever they could, rolling her into her church pew on Sundays and propping up a hymnbook in front of her, or driving her to the grocery store. When she grew old the children all came to visit her in the nursing home. They would place her in a wheelbarrow and push her out into the sun for an hour or so. “Poor old potato head,” they’d say as they picked the green mold off her round brown head. When she finally died she was placed out in a field where she slowly decomposed into the ground, but it wasn’t a sad thing. The townspeople liked thinking that she helped nourish the newer potato crops. “Unto dust shalt thou return,” they said, and kicked the dirt around with the toes of their boots.

1 comment:

oh, hey!

i think you're smart, pretty, and entitled to your own opinions.

i'd love it if the feeling was mutual!