Spuds (never potatoes)
were compulsory
in our house.
Unthinkable! that a week could pass
without a bowl of them on the table,
steam rising from the cracks
in their skin
burst blisters waiting
for a buttery salve.
Boiled, mashed, fried—
roasted alongside a slab of beef,
or stewed.
Left-over, cold, heaped in a bowl,
in the fridge—
beyond reheat.
What a treat!
We knew not of “carbs” back then.
All we knew was to
thank the Lord for spuds
and say,
AMEN!
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