The Poticans are a unique group. They can be found almost anywhere in the world with the possible exception of Antarctica, and people have subsisted on them for thousands of years. Most Americans today do not eat Poticans; they eat something that they THINK is a Potican, but in reality it is only a grease soaked limp potican-flavored imitation. I am referring to that all too familiar commodity of fast food, the french fry.
Poticans are good fried, mashed, baked, cottaged, scalloped, hashed, or boiled. Poticans come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and tastes. Poticans are also one of the worst foods to buy conventionally because they have so many pesticide and other chemical residues on them.
In any case, the Last of the Poticans was harvested here on the farm last week.
*moment of silence for the last Potican*
I was the one (spoken in a noble and memoir-ish voice) that dug the first Poticans on the farm here back in July. And I was the one that dug the very last one and placed it among its brethren last week, the first week in September.
The Poticans are all gone now. Nothing remains to indicate their former presence in the fields of the farm except a few bad ones here and there, a few rows of dead vines cast aside, rows of dirt that have been completely gone through and searched for any hiding Poticans. They have been dug, placed in lugs, washed in cold water, and stored in the cooler, there to remain till the master of the farm determines it is their turn to go out into the world and serve as a means of sustenance for the teeming masses of humanity.
I being the top Potican-extricator of the summer, I ended up harvesting about 1500 pounds of Poticans. I handled Red Norlands, Red Pontiacs, Yukon Golds, Russets, Kennebecs, French Fingerlings, and Russian Banana Fingerlings. I dug and dug and dug until my faithful Potican-digging stick up and died one day when I was endeavoring to smash a vole that was also attempting to feast on a Potican or two.
I guess that’s about all there is to say for the Poticans. Enjoy your Poticans this winter, and remember to clink one baked Potican against another in honor of all the Potican-diggers on small farms across the country, who broiled for hours in the sun, dirt, and sweat to bring them to you.
With all due regard to the Last of the Poticans,
A dusty and sweaty Intern