“We love potatoes. But no one loves potatoes as much as my daughter.” My face used to burn when my mom would make that joke. But as a child, I had no shame. Rain or shine, the moment my parents drove off to work in the morning you would find me barefoot in the wet grass, running toward the garden. The wooden fence surrounding it was tall, weathered, and rough—a perfect shield for my secret.
The plant had an earthy smell, and when its once vibrant green leaves faded to yellow and crumbled between my fingers, I knew it was time. Using both hands I’d yank the weak stem up from the ground and give it a good shake. Like a prospector searching for gold, a thrill would run through my body whenever I uncovered potatoes dangling from the stem. Then I would stuff them into my pockets and run back inside to microwave them.
Looking back, I’m truly horrified by this behaviour. And you may wonder why my family never caught on—well, that’s all thanks to Whiskey.
Whiskey was a brown lab who was about as round as a barrel. He ate just about anything. No, seriously. The vacuum cleaner had nothing on him when it came to cleaning up crumbs. But if there was one thing he wouldn’t eat, it was potatoes. However, my mom didn’t know that. So, when I told her that I saw him digging them up from the garden, she stopped letting him out into the backyard. My visits to the garden stopped shortly after that.
***
“We love potatoes, but no one loves potatoes as much as my daughter,” I remember my mom saying at the dinner table. God… she might as well have tossed me up onto a stage and had me dance a jig in my undies.
“It’s only natural,” my dad interjected, offering me a comforting smile, as though that was supposed to help. “Our family is Irish after all.”
“Our family has lived in Canada for over a hundred years.” I snatched the gravy boat, hoping to hide the mashed potatoes that I had scooped onto my plate.
My brother’s eyes lit up, “I know why she likes potatoes.” It was as if he was about to drop the world’s greatest revelation.
“Why’s that?” My mom asked, unaware of what he was up to. My leg bounced up and down. I could barely stand my growing unease.
He began to laugh. “It’s because she’s built like one!” I froze. The words hit me like a slap to the face. Without another word, I pushed back my chair, stood up, and walked away from the table. It would be years before I ate potatoes again.
***
“Why don’t you love potatoes anymore?” My mom asked. I was standing beside her in the kitchen, helping her with dinner. She handed me a few potatoes and asked me to peel them. Are they a fruit or a vegetable? I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter, though.
I pulled on my yellow rubber gloves, stretching them all the way up to my elbows. I hated how suffocating the material felt—yet I always wore them. No matter what kind of sponge I used, the dirt never came off completely. I continued to scrub the potatoes under the tap and watched as the water turned brown and swirled down the drain. The thought of eating something so dirty made me want to throw up.
“They’re gross,” I said flatly. The texture, the taste—it all repulsed me now. I can still see my mom’s face in my mind—her eyebrows drawing together in disappointment. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she didn’t understand. The silence hung between us as I continued scrubbing.
***
Years passed, and I haven’t lived at home since I left for college. But Thanksgiving? That was non-negotiable. Turkey, stuffing, Hawaiian rolls, who could resist? The family had also gotten a little bit bigger after my brother got married. This year, I saw that my mom had left a steaming pile of baked potatoes on the table. My brother picked one up with a fork and placed it in front of his daughter.
“Yucky!” she said, pushing the plate away with a scrunched-up nose.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Have you ever tried a potato before?” She stared at me with wide eyes. I nearly forgot I was talking to a two-year-old. I reached for one of the potatoes. It burned my fingers, but that didn’t stop me from taking a big bite.
“Delicious,” I said, giving my niece a big thumbs up. The taste was comforting, and I ate the rest of the potato in three more big bites. When I finished, I caught my mom smiling at me.
“See? We love potatoes,” she said, giving my niece a playful wink. “But no one loves potatoes as much as my daughter.”
Originally from Embro, Ontario, Hannah Kirwin moved to Ottawa in 2018. She loves reading, writing and gardening. Currently, she is a first-year Master of International Affairs student studying at the Norman Paterson School of International Affairs at Carleton University. Upon completing her undergraduate degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, she decided to submit some of her written works to Sumac Literary Magazine with the hope of getting published.
