The thing about being a potato is that all the other vegetables kind of hate you because they reckon, and they’re not entirely wrong, that we’ll all get eaten at some point, everyone likes potatoes, while they, the courgettes and aubergines and leeks and broccolis of the world, won’t, they’ll be forgotten, so they’re jealous of us, and our adaptability, the fact that we can be roasted or boiled or mashed or sliced or cubed or diced or deep or shallow fried or steamed or thrown into a salad, while they sit in the fridge and shrivel and decay.
And who can blame them? I certainly can’t, even if they sometimes rot on top of us and spread their mould over our skin.
All I ask is that they throw some of their hatred the onions’ way once in a while. Those fuckers get used all the time.