Spuds

Spuds!

"You say poe-tay-toe, we say poe-taah-toe."

Actually, we call them spuds; at least those of us that remain on the Emerald Isle do. The fruit of Sir Walter Raleigh*, God bless his soul!

If I were in the pub, I'd raise me pint to him but I'm not in a pub now, am I?

No.

I'm in this bloody field, drenched to the bone, freezing, with muck up to me... you know what, picking potatoes.

Bent over, I reach forward to scrabble in the broken up drill. The spuds I find, I throw in the bag I'm straddling between me legs. I sigh and straighten with me hands at the base of me back.

It's one of those cold grey days, of constant drizzle. The field we're in is massive. The five of us have been at it nearly all day and by the looks of it, there's enough work left for the next three days. I use my sleeve to wipe the snots from me nose and look at me muddy hands, the backs of me fingers worn and bleeding. Thank God they're too numb to feel.

I take a breath.

Back to it.

I drag the bag forward and start again. I hate this job but I needn't complain. At 3 pounds a bag, it's good money when there isn't much about, but we earn every penny of it.

Like I was saying, when you tell someone you're Irish they always say something about spuds (well, they say potato) like we invented them or something. They've only been in the country 400 years but they've conquered us like the Brits never could in 700 years.

Spuds changed everything for us. They replaced the turnip (Thank God!) and left the barley for the beer. Our farms got smaller and when the blight came a million of us starved. Well the Brits let that happen, but sure that's all in the past now.

The French have bread, the Chinese have rice and the Italians have their pasta, but we have spuds. It's spuds with everything: cabbage, bacon, steak, a bit of chicken, egg or sometimes on their own.

Making the dinner is easy. Boil them up, put them on a side plate, peel back the skin, muck and all, and drop them on the main plate. A hunk of butter and what more would you want? Most of the time now, we don't say 'the dinner', we just say 'the spuds'.

At times, though, I wouldn't mind something a little different, maybe some of that fancy French bread. I don't see how it would fill you, though.

Rice, now, I wouldn't mind.

I went to one of them new Chinese Takeaways last week. I got rice and something else. It was actually grand. Half the world eats it. They can't all be wrong.

I stand up and lean back stretching me tired muscles. It's nearly dark now. I turn as I hear someone behind me squelching in the muck. It's Tommy.

"Well Spud?" he says to me. "Are ya going for the spuds."

I forgot to mention that me name is Paddy Murphy, Spud, for short. You see Murphy is the most common name in Ireland, as common as the spud.

"Well, Tommy... I am. I'm starvin'."

I gathered the bag of potatoes and threw it over me shoulder and started to walk with him back to the tractor and trailer.

"I wouldn't mind trying a bit of rice for a change, Tommy."

Tommy stopped short and stared at me.

"Are ya mad. Sure that would never fill ya."

* Although Sir Walter Raleigh is commonly thought to have introduced the potato to Ireland this is actually an urban (rural) myth.