Western Appalachia

We recently moved.

California and Arnold and $120K homes selling for $450K are history now, at least for us. And we haven't looked back. (Or at least when we have, we knew we done good.)

Now we are residing in the "Gem State." (Why do they call it that? I haven't seen any gems, and very few jewelry stores). Have you figured out my new home state? No? Okay, this state is sometimes referred to as "Western Appalachia." (However, don't actually say that around these folks, they don't like it.) No? How about the "Potato State"? Ahhh, that was too easy! Idaho, of course!

Folks around here really do grow potatoes! Lots of potatoes. So many, in fact, that they give a good portion of them away from the backs of pickup trucks. Some of the farmers here are paid by the government to NOT grow potatoes. Kids in some schools have two weeks off in the fall to help with the potato harvest. And many of them really do harvest potatoes! Everywhere you go in my little town, folks talk "potatoes," and, of course, everyone eats potatoes every night for dinner. Different recipe, same main ingredient. (My kids are already hesitant to accept dinner invitations unless they are craving something new and different involving potatoes.) Spuds are "dirt" cheap here (get it?), so why not?

One day last fall, I was at Walmart in the greeting card section, searching for a belated birthday card for my son, when I overheard two potato farmers discussing "potatoes." They were standing together in the candy section, arms folded, and I knew they were potato farmers because they both wore flannel plaid shirts and muddy boots. The younger guy in blue jeans and suspenders was getting potato advice from the older fella, who obviously knew more about "tator farming" because he wore dirty overalls and was doing most of the talking. The conversation went something like this:

"Well... we got most of it done now, just a couple more acres to go."
"Yeah."
"Ya know, they got them new varieties out now."
"Yeah."
"They're pushin' em on us, ya know."
"Yeah."
"Ya know, they're not the same as the Russets."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, they're different. They look nice, pretty color. Nice shape. Smooth."
"Hmmm."
"Look pretty on the store shelf."
"Yeah."
(Neither one of these fellas, I might mention here, has looked up once during this conversation. They seemed to be focused on their muddy boots.)
"But, ya know, they don't taste the same."
"Yeah."
"Oh no. Not the same at all."
"Hmmm."
"And they don't cook up the same."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah. Any housewife could tell the difference."
"Yeah."

At this point, I almost fell asleep from sheer boredom. My eyes had glazed over and my purse had slipped off my shoulder and I had forgotten why I was at Walmart or what I was looking for. I quickly left the store and took several deep breaths of cold October air. Then, for some reason, I went straight home and fixed Rice-a-Roni for dinner.