The Furious Spinner

Tuesday early morning. Still dark. Awaken to the sound of coyotes. Yip-yip-yip. Love you, love you, love you. After Mario leaves for work, I go out to the garden. My hands have not been dirty for a long time. The potatoes are blooming, even producing tiny green fruit. It is now that they betray their nightshade roots; the lavender-colored blossoms look like the blossoms of every other nightshade plant I've ever seen in the wild. I crouch next to the potatoes and push my fingers into the almost black dirt. I feel something hard and round. I cup my fingers around it and gently pull it out of the ground. It is a purple potato. I reach in again and another, smaller, purple potato. I move to the next plant. I reach into the cool Earth. Pull up a yellow potato. A breeze blows the hot air away from me as I squat. A small white butterfly dips and twirls, tipsy from nectar. A blue jay squawks from the pine tree in our yard. I move to the next potato plant. Reaching into the ground I worship, the ground I walk upon, the ground you walk upon...I worship the ground I walk upon. This time I pull up two red potatoes. I stare at my treasures, thinking I have never seen anything as beautiful.

I take the potatoes into the house, along with pale green sage leaves. I slice the potatoes, wash them in olive oil, place them on a baking pan, then lay sage leaves on them like tiny blankets that don't quite fit. I crumble a bit of Celtic sea salt on it all. They are lovely, these purple, yellow, and red ovals that remind me of colorful communion wafers.

After I bake the potato slices, I eat them. Eating the body of the Earth, I become grounded, become ground. I feel like dirt, finally. Ahhhh, bliss. 0 comments

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All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.