Have you seen the state of potatoes lately down at The Devil's Playground? Something is afoot with those tubers.
I bought a big bag of bakers, Idaho or russet, who knows, my BFF Google tells me they're the same thing, only russets can be grown anywhere, but Idahos can't claim the name unless they are actually grown within the borders of the state. These are the rough-skinned, dirt-needs-to-scrubbed-off taters that are nice and crumbly when baked. Not your red-skinned, new potato, Yukon Rose, other kinds that hold firm.
I first used some last week, when we had some delicious ribeyes from Farmer H's auction grill, Gassy G. I did see the potatoes vibrating inside the microwave. Normally, I leave them alone until the bell signals their bakeitude. But this time I heard a squeal. They do that sometimes, you know. Not in the disturbing way a frog squeals when the junior college biology teacher jabs a probe into its brain while describing nerve function, but rather in the way a bloated fellow might lean sideways and let out a balloon-release squeaky fart. When I checked on my starchy trio, one suddenly shot some mealy crumbs from the holes I had stabbed into each side. Don't that beat all? I stabbed them so they wouldn't explode, and the stab wounds shot out their innards. If only O. Henry had a microwave and some insolent potatoes, I'm sure he might have become famous for a short story.
Tonight I put a baker in the over-stove microwave for The Pony. It's right at eye level, you know. I hit the five-minute button and turned to washing my dishes. Have I ever mentioned that I don't have a dishwasher? I felt like something was going on behind me. I turned. Peeped into the microwave. And I saw that big ol' tater rocking back and forth like a toddler all hopped-up on sugar riding one of those springy horse/rooster/elephant/dolphin toys imbedded in the soil at the park.
Sometimes, it's better to avert your eyes.