When it comes to accomplishment, there's nothing like growing something you can eat - like a potato.
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A close member of the family tree called round the other day - let's call her the mother-in-law (Big Mama-IL) - with a package that had all the hallmarks of a mafia drop-off.
Featureless shopping bag, eagerness to get in the door, a general kind of "have I got an offer you can't refuse".
Once in the kitchen, the big reveal - potatoes. Just like you get in the shops.
Home-grown, apparently, complete with photos showing the biggest one on scales - a mighty 811-gram, Spudzilla.
Talk about pride, and I could dig it man, because that's what you do with potatoes. If you can grow them.
I was showing more empathy with my dig because personally I've struggled.
There is a rumour that all you have to do is plant a spud that is going to seed in the ground, mound it up, then wait for all the leaves to die back and harvest.
The word "kilograms" is often splashed about in reference to the supposedly effortless payload that will result, leading to ludicrous expectations for the brown thumb.
In my case, after what seemed like six months, I'd dug into my mound of vigorous foilage and found possibly what was one potato. It could have been kitty litter.
Definitely not chip worthy - which is my yardstick for potato appreciation - and the only chip was on my shoulder re shattered hopes and dreams.
There were various words of consolation at the time about the need to use "certified seed" spuds and all that.
Balanced out by old school assurances that "no mate, you can use anything", including car tyres.
Fantasy colliding with the wheel world.
Anyhow, there was the artisan mother-in-law in my kitchen proudly displaying four of her heirloom gems.
All eminently capable of achieving a very long chip.
She'd also dropped some off with the relos before calling in. Talk about super spreader.
Like me, she reckons she simply threw one of her budding spuds from under the sink into the ground.
Unlike me, she'd delivered a crop of thorougbreds.
She had theories about why it worked. Sandy ground being a key element.
But I reckon it's in the genes.
My in-laws trace their proud roots back to Europe and I'd visited the old country many years ago where I'd been invited to spend the day picking potatoes.
I'd never drunk so much wine and home-distilled fire water in my life and looking back I could appreciate why potato farming was so popular in the village.
Clearly this intoxicating ability has been passed on through the generations and so to my dear Big Mamma-IL I raise a glass and say nostrovia.
Which means something like "cheers" first time round but after sixteen shots can easily translate to "bloody good spuds them".
