November 20, 2017  - Potatoes – now and back then

For several years now, I have noticed during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays one can buy a 10-pound bag of potatoes cheaper than a 5-pound bag.  Yes, I know it is a merchandising ploy to get people to shop at their store for all their holiday cooking needs. They offer a staple item at such a reduced price and make you feel guilty not taking advantage of it.

       My choice this year was $1.98 for 10 pounds or $3.58 for 5 pounds.   I heaved the 10-pound bag into the cart knowing that I would be tossing half the spuds on the compost pile, as they turn bad.  With only two in our household, it is foolish to buy in such large quantities. 

        I will be having a few people in for Thanksgiving dinner and serving garlic-mashed potatoes, but knowing there would be upcoming waste still bothers me.

        Then, my mind shifted to where am I going to find a place to store them this year.  Even short-term, I don’t have storage for a 10-pound bag.  I pondered a moment and thought of Mom’s potato bin.

Last month, cleaning out Mom’s house - I actually should say – Mom and Dad’s house which is more accurate – I emptied the lower kitchen cabinets out into the middle of the floor and sorted through the items.

        One item was custom built by my Dad.  He was a clever man with his hands.  During the years 1952 to 1953, my Dad built the house himself from the cinderblock foundation to the roof and everything in between.  He was a “do it all” type man with jack-of-all-trade skills that he had or he quickly learned during the process of building the house, which was our childhood home where Mom and Dad resided until they died.

        I had disbursed the rest of the lower cabinet items, but I left the handmade, custom built wooden potato/onion bin out so that my brother, Ken, and I could admire it a bit and see if anyone in the family needed it.

  

        Dad had designed it out of hardwood – later painted pink to match the kitchen walls.  It fit perfectly under the kitchen sink.  The bottom width was one third of the top width. The sides slanted out from the bottom. Even with much weight, it would slide in and out easily compared to a wide bottom bin. There was a vertical  partition one-third distance from the front end to keep the onions away from the potatoes, and you could easily store 10 to 20 pounds of potatoes and maybe 5 to 10 pounds of onions in that bin.     

        I lovingly wiped it down inside and out with a damp cloth and took the time to admire Dad’s artisanship.  As a child, it had always been there under the kitchen sink and had to be 50 or 60+ years old.  Two round holes were carved through the upper part of both the front and back panels. You would stick your fingers through the holes in order to grab the bin and pull it forward to reach in when the supply got low.

        The holes were slightly uneven.  I poked my fingers through the holes and instantly realized the holes were sized for Dad’s large fingers, not Mom’s slender fingers.  My slender fingers swam in the holes and lingered there realizing the history of this one-of-a-kind item. 

        Later when we took a break from cleaning the cellar, I drug it out onto the back steps. I pointed out the slightly uneven finger holes to Ken, but he didn’t say a word as his eyes darted from top to bottom and side to side assessing how well it had been crafted. Ken, like, Dad is the same type of “do it all” type man with jack-of-all trade skills.

But, alas, no one in the family wanted it.