Oh, potato;
how much could I love thee?
Let me count the ways:
chipped, sautéed, mashed;
bashed, hashed, or ketchup dashed;
baked, faked, wedgied, caked;
au gratin, replacing the lemons in tarte tatin;
fried, roasted, boiled, or raw;
croquetted, saladed, dropped upon the floor;
swimming strongly with leeks in soup,
bubbled and squeaked
in an inedible gloop;
jacketed, still packeted,
grated, unplated,
(a style, I think, that is so overrated);
curried, unhurried,
waffled, omeletted, loaded,
sweet, sour, by tomatoes goaded;
weekly, daily, by the hour,
my potato love thou hast such power.
.
No, I shall not eat
my potato love;
as long as there are
stars to see in sky’s above;
I shall always keep you near to me;
your earthy ways do so endear to me;
by my side your hide will stay;
for ever and a lifelong day –
or at least, perhaps, maybe, until,
thou too muchly hast decay,
and the whiff of you
dost make me ill.
Graeme Sandford 