As you will be aware, Irish people have a special relationship with the potato. Many years ago we were at a wedding where an English man was marrying a Cork woman. He went around the reception telling people in tones of awe, that there were going to be three different types of potato for dinner. How could he not have known that at least two is standard for any kind of fancy dinner.
There are a number of potato related ditties I learnt when I was growing up.
This one about the importance of ensuring your stock of potatoes:
Be ateing two/be peeling two/have two in the heel of your fist/and have your eye on two more.
Sound advice. Also this one which is a Cork special:
Are oo from Cork?/ I am are oo?/How are yer potatoes?/Big and small/How do ya ate ’em?/Skins and all/Don’t they hurt ya?/Not at all.
When I was little and we were ill, mashed potato with a little butter was often offered to the sufferer once he or she had graduated from dry toast.
My mother used to call mashed potato pandy, which I always assumed was a made up childish name never to be uttered outside the family home. Imagine my astonishment when I saw this letter in the paper (part of a long series of letters over several days on the potato).
Here’s another long letter on potatoes. In case you’re interested. And who wouldn’t be?
More of it:
I regret to say that Mr. Waffle being the child of 60s hippies prefers rice to potatoes and insofar as he likes potatoes prefers a waxy potato to a floury one. It says much for his other virtues that our relationship continues to thrive notwithstanding his poor carbohydrate choices.
Please let me have your own potato related memories.