They were early this year. Once, I planted in April. They came up. Looked good, before 6 inches of snow fell on them near the end of May. It didn’t kill them but set them back.
We had them everyday when I was a youngster. My father didn’t think it was a meal without potatoes. Boiled mostly, sometimes baked, later in the year when they were bigger. During the winter, pulled from the cellar, when they’d softened, we had them mashed with butter and cream.
Norlands for early eating and Pontiacs for keepers. A hundred pounds in each gunny sack. My grandfather had something against Netted Gems and that’s carried on to me. ‘Too floury’, he said!
We always felt lucky to have them, soft or old. They made us thankful. We didn’t have much but we never felt poor.
Now we have it all, but those new spuds – when they come around – are special.