Spud-Tacular!

The obdurate oaf embarked on an oleaginous odyssey ostentatiously wearing his orgulous expression like a hat he forgot was upside down.

  

“Potatoes make fries, chips, and vodka. It’s like the other vegetables aren’t even trying.”--anonymous

  

song recommendation: Mashed Potato Time by Dee Dee Sharp

  

Spud-Tacular!

  

My father’s a potato-loving guy.

I don't mean that in a love-that-dares-not-speaks-its-name kind of way. He just loves potatoes. To eat them, if I still haven't made my point clear. In fact, my father likes potatoes so much you would think he was Irish. However, unlike the Irish, he does eat other foods. He just likes potatoes. A lot. 

     Since I brought the Irish's eating preferences up, I've always wondered (and maybe one of you can tell me) how did the great Irish Potato Famine end up killing so many Irish men and women? I mean, was potatoes ALL they ate in Ireland? Didn't they have any other kind of food? I can only imagine having a conversation with them during that time.
     Me: "Why don't you guys eat other foods?"
     The Irish: "What can we say? We like potatoes."
     "But what about corn?"
     "We don't like the way corn comes back out in your poop. That's just gross."
     "How about peas?"
     "Too mushy."

     "Broccoli?

     "Too green."
     "There's always cauliflower."
     "Cauliflower looks like an albino brain. We're not cannibals, after all."
     "Carrots?"
     "There's no snowmen in Ireland, so we have no use for carrots."
     "Pumpkins? They make good pies."
     "Gourds really creep us out."
     "Cucumbers are good.
     "We tried cucumbers once. We didn't see our women-folk for years."
     My point is, there had to be something else to eat in Ireland besides potatoes. It's an island. An island is surrounded by water. You know what's in water? That's right, fish. Are you telling me they refused to fish?
     "Only Protestants go out in boats to fish," the Irish Catholics probably argued.
     "Only Catholics go out to fish in boats," the Irish Protestants probably countered.

     "Besides," they all might just agree, "fish tastes too much like... fish."
     Maybe they have a point. 

     Fishing, it seems to me, is too much like work.

     It takes away from the time I could be spending at the pub.

Anyway, in my case, the potato doesn't fall far from the tree. I love potatoes, too. Especially mashed potatoes. My youngest daughter also loves potatoes. She loves them so much I used to call her Spuds. A nickname she liked, by the way, although I must admit she was in single digits age-wise at the time. Unfortunately, my wife (who’s always right, by the way) had to stick her two-cents in and correctly pointed out that  "Spuds" wasn't really a proper name for a little girl. Or anyone else for that matter.

At least, according to my wife.

I once gave my brother-in-law's first-born daughter the nickname "Peanut Head." When she was born, her head was exactly the shape of a peanut. During birth, his wife must have taken a break when my niece's head was only halfway out.

     "Hey, Peanut Head," I would affectionately coo to her in her crib. And she would laugh and giggle and smile. I don't think my brother-in-law appreciated it, though. Again, my wife had to stick her two-cents in and point out that thing about what makes a proper nickname for a little girl and blah, blah, blah. But it wasn't my fault my niece had a peanut-shaped head. And it's not like anybody who saw her wasn't going to tell everybody later about the peanut-headed baby they just saw. But I stopped calling her that anyway. In case you're wondering, she grew up to have a perfectly-shaped head. 
     I bring the humble potato up because one recent morning I found myself having to cook breakfast for my father and granddaughter. My wife was off giving a seminar on nicknames and the proper naming of them thereof or some such nonsense.
      My granddaughter's a toddler, so you would think she’d be picky, but she’s not. My father, on the other hand, is an adult, so you would think…
     "Where's your wife?" my father asked when he saw me cooking.
     "She had an appointment," I told him, purposely keeping it vague and simple. He only hears every third word, and the ones he hears, he doesn't understand. 
     "She's not cooking breakfast?"
     See what I mean?
     "No," I said, keeping it down to one word, one syllable. What I wanted to say was, "Do you see her cooking? No, you only see me, don't you?" But, since certain people are always assuring me that God will one day pay me back (and those people would be the ones NOT taking care of my father), I don't.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

He made himself a cup of hot tea. He's learned that if he waits for me to make it for him, then he's going to be waiting a very long time.

Do I sound like a jerk?

Yeah, I probably do.

The thing is, we're both adults, we're both capable, but I was  the one in the middle of cooking breakfast. I didn't have the time or the inclination to wait on him hand and foot like my wife does. 

In the time it took him to make his tea, I was able to finish up. As my father sat himself down at the table, I placed my granddaughter's plate in front of her. She gets served first because my father and I can serve ourselves, my granddaughter can't. It's that simple.

Plus, she's so darn cute.

"Oh, boy! Tater Tots!" she yelped. The smallest things make her happy. 

My father, not so much. 

"What? Tater Tots? I don't like Tater Tots," my father groused, sounding unhappy. "They're no good."

See what I mean?

My granddaughter, meanwhile, started to eye her Tater Tots suspiciously.

"You like Tater Tots," I told my father, and then directed my attention to my granddaughter. "And you do, too," I told her. 

To illustrate my point, I snatched up one of her Tots and popped it in my mouth, chewing enthusiastically.

"See?" I said. "They're good."

"Hey!" my granddaughter griped. She probably wanted to say, "What do you think you're doing, old man, eating one of my Tots?" but didn't. She's barely learning her numbers, but she does understand the mathematical concept of one-less-for-me.

Meanwhile, my father was still trying to convince me that he didn't like Tater Tots. He's 97-years-old, I've known him all my life, and I've NEVER heard him once say he didn't like tater Tots.

"You like potatoes, don't you?" I asked him, like F. Lee Bailey on steroids.

"Yeah."

"Well, Tater Tots are made from potatoes." 

"I don't care. I don't like Tater Tots."

He likes any kind of potato. Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, fried potatoes. He likes french fries, home fries, steak fries. He likes potato soup, potato casserole, and potatoes au gratin. If he could, he'd hollow them out and wear them as shoes. That's how much he likes potatoes. And he's telling me now, after 97 years, that he doesn't like Tater Tots?

"You like hash browns, don't you?"

"I love hash browns," he admitted.

"Well, they're just like hash browns, except they're rolled into little balls."

"I don't care. There's something about them I don't like. Maybe it's the way they look."

"It's not how a food looks that's important, it's how it tastes."

"It doesn't matter how they taste, because I'm not going to eat them."

"I'm going to serve you some anyway."

"You can serve me all you want, I'm still not going to eat them."

Maybe this kind of crap works with my wife, but my father doesn't know who he's fooling with. In a battle of wills, he is sadly outgunned. If he thinks he's going to act like a spoiled 2-year-old, he's got another thing coming. 

I look at my granddaughter. 

She's happily eating away.

You know why I ended up not serving my father any Tater Tots?

Because life's too short.