I am a potato & this is my story...

Potato has been a dedicated soldier for humanity in the fight against hunger, yet the respect and the recognition it seeks is still a distant dream, writes Garima Verma

I have conquered Earth. I have conquered space. I have obliterated borders. Yet, I am not the king I should be. I am a mere soldier. I am important. Yet, not important enough. Yes, I am potato, and the story of my life is that perennial longing of graduating from ordinary to extraordinary. For, I might always have a bowl at the table, I could never find anyone who was willing enough to hitch my wagon to a star. Is there anyone more a global citizen than me? I didn’t let the country lines keep me from loving one and all. I might have originated in the Andes some 8,000 years ago, reached Europe in the mid-1500s and spread everywhere from there, but wherever I went I considered them mine and they considered me theirs. I can stake claim and promise to never see the shining sun if there is any country in this world which doesn’t have its indigenous line of potato recipes.

Just because I birthed from dirt, no matter how many countries I fed, how many famines I saved without any hail to me (my ruin in 1845-49 by blight resulted in the worst famine in 19th century Europe — Irish Potato Famine), I was always a commoner.

Remember that man — Vincent Van Gogh! He painted so many still-life fruits and vegetables. The Plate of Onions! Onions! They cannot even be a complete food unto themselves. And, they are painted in sunny colours, with a pipe, tobacco, pot of coffee, bottle of wine, letter, book, burning candle, and a matchbox — life as we know it. I got the Potato Eaters — dark palette and harsh reality of peasant life, an association with the downtrodden. I don’t loathe the idea of being the food of the commoners. I take pride in being a salve for hunger. It is the reality of just being so that irks — a mere root vegetable.

Am I wrong then that I consider myself a victim of middle-child syndrome, neither respected nor loved enough, always taken for granted? I am, after all, the most important non-grain crop in the world.

I was the first vegetable to be grown outside Earth, aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia in 1995. Yet, my life is a constant struggle of progressing from a common commodity to niche plate. I am not a culinary delight that dreams are made of, they said. I never did, nor shall ever have brushstrokes celebrating me in an elite setting — à la the fruit baskets that adorned many a canvas. The Goghs and Arcimboldos and Cézannes of this world would never accord me that aura of sophistication.

Thy cruel world, thy cruel people!

For them, apple pie is apple pie, even pumpkin pie is pumpkin pie. Enter yours truly, and it becomes Shepherd’s pie. Still, I tried to embrace all and get embraced by all. But I begot contradiction.

On the one hand I was acclaimed to be versatile enough that I could effortlessly go from breakfast to lunch to dinner, and even tea but I was also made to believe that “Potato is fattening.”

I am detested and blamed for those inches on waist. Who would talk about or blame oil, ghee, preservatives? Didn’t ghee maketh the tikki!

Also, I am a great source of Vitamin B & C, potassium, magnesium, and antioxidants. And, let me tell you, my starch acts like fibre and helps in growth of good bacteria in your gut. The same good bacteria for which you would rather pay for those probiotic drinks but shun me in the name of ‘healthy eating’ and ‘weight loss’.

And, somewhere on this earth, a handful of people try to make up for it all by giving me the momentary and illusory haloed sense of superior being by putting me on the plate of sacred fasting feasting. Tis but a drop in the vast ocean!

I wonder when will my perseverance really pay off? Sigh!