Boiled in saltwater, steam rising upward,
skinned by hands that honor the harvest.
In Peru, they meet earth’s high altitude,
their flesh carved into crisp black chuño.
India rests them in golden turmeric oil,
mashed, spattered with cumin’s dark stars.
In France, sliced thin as whispers, laid flat,
then fried to lace with butter’s shimmering.
Ireland buried their history in you, deep,
their hunger braided with your round body.
In Japan, pounded, silky as infant’s thighs,
they form soft pillows for chopsticks' grip.
America heaps butter and cream in skin,
its red wounds split open to nourish us.
A hand holds fries in grease-specked paper,
mouths devour the salted music of crisp.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: September 1st, 2025 04:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments2
A tuber that has bridged the international gap and continues to entice and nourish nations. A poetic recipe that leaves me hungry.
Thanks Soren for your feedback and support
Most welcome
Homage to the spud 👍It's earned it.
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