You know how you sometimes find something unexpected in your stuff? Like a single navy sock, and you know you just wear black? Or a piece of wilted lettuce at the bottom of your shopping basket?
I have potatoes in my shed.
That’s not a strange thing, in and of itself. I’ll bet many people have potatoes in their sheds, basements or kitchens. Hell, we all like potatoes. It’s nature’s way of telling us vegetables can taste good.
But I have a lot of potatoes in my shed.
Not a bag or a box. Not a dozen bags or boxes. I have several tons of potatoes in my shed, and they’re not mine. And I’m pretty sure Ilze would have told me if she spent our home loan on root vegetables.
I don’t know where they came from.
I don’t know who they belong to.
I just know that their existence is an incontrovertible fact, and part of this incontrovertible fact is that they’re in our shed. About four or five large containers full, so I would guess at somewhere between five and ten tons.
I don’t know that much about rural customs in the Flemish countryside. Perhaps they’re a housewarming gift. Perhaps in times of crisis everyone helps out by hiding potatoes from the invading German hordes. Whatever. But somehow, I’ll have to find out who they belong to, and sooner or later we’ll have to get them shifted.
I can’t very well ask around for an interior designer who’s good with organic textures and the colour brown. And I can’t ask the builders to work around the veggies.
So we’ll wait. Give it a week or so, and see if someone comes to collect them. And, if not, it’s mash and gravy for everyone on the Internet. Bring you own bucket and spoon.
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