The next topic is Photograph, Buttery, Tramlines, Vast, Unit, Trying
RICHARD
Starch
Don’t chop the onions next to the potatoes.
Potato eyes are easily irritated, and unlike you, they can’t turn away, avert their gaze, or mop the tears when they flow.
If you don’t believe me, ask the carrots, they’ll tell you it’s true – inasmuch as you can believe anything a carrot has to say!
You could argue that sore eyes is the least of the potatoes’ worries, and once you’ve dealt with those onions, their fate will be far worse.
And, I suppose you’re right.
Maybe, it’s not the onions that make potatoes weep.
It’s knowing they’re about to die.
TOM
Linden Sweden Jonas Peeler 1953
Glance at a “Old-School” Professional Potato Peeler you are witnessing the height of 1950’s form follows function. Built to last several life times. If you never had to use one, despite its striped down simplify you may well miss one of its built-in utility tools. At one end is a blunt tapper curvy part. Dull as a butter knife, but deadly in a well-trained hand. This my friend is a Potato Eye Garroter, as in surround and choke off. With a well-placed stab, quick twist and a sharp snap you can render your tubers eyeless with chief potato peeler efficacy.
LIZZIE
Don’t say that. Don’t put it there. Don’t look that way. Don’t, don’t. Didn’t I tell you not to…
I am sick of it. And I want to move on.
But she grabbed my ankle and her hand was a shackle. She drags herself through the mud and she doesn’t let go.
I knew I would… Yes, die, say it, say it, die.
She would never let go. Never.
Don’t throw that away.
The potatoes? Potato eyes. The potatoes have eyes. The potatoes have…
And I throw it away, I throw everything away.
The eyes, the will, and the soul.
LISA
We’re lucky. We live in a shared house on a posh street. The teacher’s strikes have been tricky though. I’ve not been able to get time off work, but a lady down the road has been looking after my youngest, Louise.
“Estelle never had telly. They just did playing.” Louise said excitedly thrusting a picture towards me. The picture was a face made out of a meal’s worth of dried pasta. “Tomorrow we’re going to do printing with potatoes.”
We put the picture on the empty fridge. It watched us while they ate, and I pretended I’d eaten at work.
SERENDIPIDY
They’re watching me.
There, look at those ugly potato eyes as they follow me around the kitchen.
Those evil, nasty things, staring at me.
It’s almost as if they know.
Carefully, I fill the pan, set it on the gas and slip the biggest, sharpest knife from its slot in the knife block.
I know what I have to do, and I know I must be ruthless and show no pity.
Slowly, I heft the knife in my hand, approaching the chopping board with intent in my steps.
Then, I rapidly turn, thrusting the knife deep into my husband’s throat.
NORVAL JOE
As Billbert and the pudgy old woman climbed higher into the sky, the woman’s gimlet, potato eyes grew wider. In fear, she wrapped her arms around Billbert, her ample bosom pressing into his face.
The more Billbert tried to push away, the tighter she locked her arms around his neck.
He leveled off. “Come on, lady. Are you trying to kill us both?”
She only whimpered.
Flying parallel to the ground he could see that only Sabrina and Linoliamanda waited below in the empty street.
Billbert shot back to the ground and dropped the old woman in a prickly bush.
PLANET Z
Nietzsche says that when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.
The same goes with potatoes.
If you stare into a potato’s eyes, the potato stares back.
I know, it doesn’t look like that when you first stare at the potato.
But try it. And keep at it.
You’ll see.
It’s disturbing, isn’t it?
You want to look away, but you can’t.
Peel the potato, slice it up, boil it, mash it.
And you can still feel it staring at you.
Can you eat it?
No.
So, throw it on the compost heap.
And not into the abyss.