Surprisingly sensational season for spuds
Time to toot the trumpets. For potatoes.
Yup, potatoes. Winemakers are fond of announcing, with much ballyhoo, that certain years are great for grapes. Out in the Okanagan, for instance, they’re currently touting 2015 as “the summer of Noir.”
Well, good for them. But I want to bang the drums for something far more downmarket: the humble spud.
This was a very good year for potatoes. Plentiful rain in spring, coupled with cool temperatures, have resulted in my best crop ever. I keep unearthing sensational spuds — as many as eight biggies on one plant — a haul that excites me as much as any posh Pinot Noir.
The truth is, potatoes don’t get their due. They’re one of those taken-for-granted foodstuffs that no one thinks much about. In this era of instant fads, the dependable, starchy tubers, eaten all over the world, get treated with contempt.
“Please, no potatoes for me,” people say. “They’re so fattening.”
Nonsense. Spuds are surprisingly low in calories. Blame the butter and cooking oil we use to prepare them. Even so, the myth persists — and the single complimentary quote I’ve found about these often-derided delights is by Oprah Winfrey.
“My idea of heaven is a great big baked potato and someone to share it with,” she once said.
Amen, Oprah. And how I love to grow my own. The plants produce surprisingly pretty flowers; they tolerate most soils ( just give them plenty of sun and moisture); harvesting is fun (like hunting for buried treasure); I can safely eat the skins (because mine aren’t doused with dubious chemicals); and what marvellous comfort food they are during our interminable winters.
On a ghastly day of freezing rain and howling winds, I select a couple of fat specimens from the cold room to bake for supper. I recall, with a warm glow, the sunny summer morning when I dug them up. And my spirits lift.
To experience this frisson of pleasure yourself, here’s a hot tip. Put some pine needles in the planting holes. For me, it always results in bigger, better potatoes, presumably because the needles acidify the soil.
And experiment. There are so many kinds now. My faves were once French fingerlings: sausage-shaped, small and nutty-tasting, with pink-streaked flesh. But cleaning them got too fiddly. This year, I went back to stalwart Yukon golds, developed at our own University of Guelph. Unadventurous, perhaps, but what great flavour, texture and colour.
A recent story in the Star reported that purple potatoes have become “in.” They are apparently “about to turn Toronto restaurant menus blue.”
Yikes. Because when I grew some, people weren’t impressed.
“I think your potatoes might be going off,” said one dinner guest hesitantly, prodding hers with a fork. “These look, um, a bit mouldy.”
And so they did. The drawback with the purples is that the flesh goes a weird grey after cooking. Not exactly appetizing.
But don’t take my word for it. Try them — and others. The route to homegrown spud heaven (even in a small space) is remarkably easy and outlined in my book, Incredible Edibles: 43 Fun Things To Grow in the City.
Now, I’m off to dig up some more whoppers. soniaday.com