Pot junkie's growing his own now

JUNEAU — Throughout my childhood, mom was always buying "pot" — by which I mean potatoes, as she abbreviated them on her grocery list, the same way "cot" denoted cottage cheese.

Still, for a self-proclaimed "square" who once, after busting my sister for hosting a party, couldn't understand what happened to all the Jell-O — "you don't serve Jell-O at a party; you serve chips and dip!" she famously exclaimed — the woman sure stocked our house with "pot." This joke never ceased to be funny. Although maybe all the "pot" had something to do with that.

Thanks to my youthful "pot" consumption, now, as an adult, I find myself nurturing a pretty nasty "pot" habit — see, it's still funny (although there's nothing humorous about actual drug abuse, except maybe early Cheech & Chong — and even then, it helps to have a buzz).

Gateway starch

Seriously, though, I'm a total potato-head. I like them whipped, I like them chipped. I like them hashed, I like them smashed. I like them fried, grilled, boiled, broiled, baked, twice baked, thrice baked (four times is pushing it), gratineed, scalloped, pancaked, jo jo'd and totted (or is it "tottified"?). I find gnocchi yummy. I tell time with one of those elementary school science fair potato clocks. I sweat melted butter.

Of course, potatoes are a gateway starch, and take it from me, I've done them all: rice, barley, hominy, couscous, polenta. I've spent the last year strung-out on quinoa — that's some serious stuff, man (especially tossed with kale, pine nuts and Parmesan).

But while I may find temporary solace in the arms of another carbohydrate, I'll always come back to my first love. Indeed, my three favorite foods are French fries, mashed potatoes and a kosher deli item known as a "knish," which, for the unfamiliar, is essentially a mashed potato stuffed inside a crust that tastes like French fries. Street vendors sell knishes all over New York City, a place you can literally buy "pot" on every corner. Hot pretzels and meat-on-a-stick, too.

Anyway, I'm not the only one with a "pot" jones. The average human currently eats more than 70 pounds annually, and that's a worldwide average, including many countries that don't have Pringles. Doing the math (even with my "pot"-addled brain), it's entirely conceivable the median American adult packs away his or her own weight in potatoes a year. Those family-sized cartons of Hungry Jack make it all too easy.

And so this past May, I decided to take that inevitable step and start growing my own. Not only did I want to know exactly where my "pot" came from — in this case, a giant box garden right in the front yard for all to see — I aimed to cut out the middlemen (Costco, Fred Meyer) who've been profiting so mightily on my need to roast some spuds.

Odd that a vegetable first domesticated in South America some 10,000 years ago would fare so well in modern-day Alaska. But despite the cold, wet growing season, "pot" grows like weeds.

Potatoes are members of the nightshade family, which also includes tomatoes (perhaps that's why they taste so good with ketchup). Point is, like all nightshades, potato plants contain toxins — in their case, isolated to the leaves, flowers and stems, rendering the luscious greenery I'd admired as my garden blossomed throughout the summer little use to me. No, my goods lay in the ground, thriving or dying hidden somewhere amid a foot and a half of Turf Builder and steer manure, offering no indication of size, number or quality until we dug them up.

Successful harvest

And dig them up we did, as a family activity earlier this week. Let me tell you, the only thing more fun than hanging out and pulling a bunch of tubers is hanging out and pulling a bunch of tubers with your kids. It was great. We had Grateful Dead blasting and everything.

Honestly, I'd call our "pot" harvest a success, my son and daughter shrieking with delight at every gnarled purple finger and bulbous pink nugget we unearthed. And while the crop yield won't make us self-sufficient past, say, December — Hanukkah latke season — we definitely scored ourselves a couple of kilos. They're currently curing on the floor of the garage, along with all the other junk I've got "curing" there, you know, like scrap wood, empty gas cans and a rusty bike trailer.

In fact, I texted a photo of our proud haul to the grandparents — there's nothing grandparents love more than photos of filthy children they bear no responsibility for cleaning — and you know what my mom texted me back?

"Cute kids, nice pot."

I've got to admit, it does look pretty tasty. Man, I can't wait to sit back and enjoy a huge bowl of homegrowns. It's going to be a regular "pot" party.

Geoff Kirsch is a Juneau-based writer and humorist currently working on an essay collection based upon his long-running column in the Juneau Empire.