We Will Never Be Frittata

Give me a good insurrection any day. Make it with potatoes – Fingerlings, Russets, Yukon Golds – and the idea becomes pretty irresistible. Now imagine a rallying cry:

“We will never be potpie
We will never be potluck
We will never be frittata…”

So what then will they be? And where are they headed, all sneaking and leaping and toppling from the just-closed County Fair, blue ribbons awarded, and cabbages unworriedly slumbering, once prodigious pumpkins accepting their futures as dessert…?

To the amusement park – quick! – through moonlight, back alleys and creaky-cracky doors, because who knows what tomorrow will bring – which larger, immutable plans we should need to submit to, and whether there is ever any emerging from the other side?

In the meantime, Gerrrrronimooooooo! – even if we run the risk of making a spectacle of ourselves, or a target. We? I mean they: “the mamas and the papas and the wee potato buds,” chef-defying and operatic, one googly eye on the thrill of the moment, and one on the sort of halting, improbable history that cannot get written unless we imagine it first.