Spud is nineteen today. Happy birthday, my little potato cake.
He got there despite all the roasting I’ve given him, half-baked parent that I am. To be fair, though, I never beet him; and I yam a loving mother to my sweet potato.
He’s a chip off the old block because he’s a Golden Wonder to me, and never grates my nerves, fries my beans or sets me boiling. I’ve done my best to raise a good crop and he hasn’t given me any hasselback, despite the many downright hash browns I’ve made. We’ve had a lot of fun and latke, that’s for sure; though I sometimes leave him steaming, but that’s no skin off my nose. Still, I don’t want to be peeling him off the walls. He is my King Edward, after all; and he who pays the Maris Piper calls the tune.
Well, I’d better go – I hear him gnocching but he can’t come in because I’m typing this. I don’t want him stewing; that will leave me having to sauté him out and it is his birthday.
Happy birthday, my darling little tater tot. Here’s a birthday mashup for you: