An English In Kentucky


















July 30th  2011    Tim Candler

    I will curse my suddenly aristocratic and delicate feet.  There I was believing in their sturdiness.  I thought them the sort of foot that once might have searched for Lumper Potato in the famine fields of Eire, and thought they still could.  Now they are quarrelsome unless shod in something petite that breathes and apparently they prefer that color sometimes referred to as 'brothel creeper brown'.

      Lumper Potato were easily grown.  They did not criticize the soil or moan and groan in mud.  Manures and composts were not required to see them content enough to feed a multitude.  They were a happy go lucky, cheerful and somewhat knobby Potato that quickly became mighty.  Then "a mist came over the Irish sea, Potato plants turned black"  and landlords evicted the hungry.

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