They call it the humble potato but there’s nothing humble about it. This year, the potato is a celebrity, due to be feted around the world now that the United Nations has declared this the International Year of the Potato.
We shouldn’t be surprised, in fact, if the potato becomes downright arrogant with all this unaccustomed attention. It has already prompted an international dispute between Chile and Peru, who are arguing over which country is the original source of spuds.
Surely there’s nothing that indicates popularity more than having two suitors fighting over one prize.
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According to a May 27 story by Associated Press, Peru says the potato originated in the Andes near Lake Titicaca. Chile claims archeological evidence of the potato’s existence in that country going back 14,000 years.
Peru claims to have 3,000 different varieties of potato, reported AP. Chile says it conquered the part of Peru where potatoes may have begun their storied history, so Chile can claim ownership as one of the spoils of war.
AP couldn’t resist the cliche when reporting the argument. A “hot potato,” it said.
There are plenty of potato growers in every prairie province, but of course anyone with a vegetable garden knows something about potato growing. And potato hilling. And potato bugs.
Fortunately, all that is now part of the glamour attached to the versatile vegetable.
Last week, British Columbia’s agriculture department lauded the spud at a news conference. B.C. has one of the earliest potato harvests in Canada, according to agriculture minister Pat Bell. Here it is only June, and they’re harvesting a nugget potato of the Warba variety. No small potatoes, that.
Oops, there goes another potato cliché.
Which brings us to a potato story of another sort – a story that might gain notoriety during this special spud celebration.
The self-proclaimed potato capital of Canada, Vauxhall, Alta., erected two potato sculptures several years ago to recognize the production, quality and role that potatoes play in the local economy and in the national and international food supply.
Sammy and Samantha Spud, complete with the lumps and bumps that typify
many real potatoes, strut their stuff along Highway 36, which runs past the town. Shortly after the statues went up, the local newspaper editor called to discuss a recent spate of vandalism. Sammy and Samantha had fallen prey to it.
Had they been mashed? Hashed? Or fried?
“I hate to have to tell you this,” she said, “but Sammy and Samantha have been shot – somewhere right between the eyes.”
I think she was kidding, but I’ve never been sure.
