Ode to the Humble Potato
VEGETABLE POEM
Beneath the soil, so dark and deep,
Where quiet roots lie still asleep,
There grows a gem without much show,
The modest heart we call potato.
It bears no scent, no petals bright,
No climbing vine, no lofty height.
Yet in its skin of brown and rough,
Lies food for kings and common folk enough.
Not dressed in green or garland red,
It hides beneath the garden bed.
Yet ask the world what fills the plate,
And many name this starchy great.
It boils and bakes, it mashes smooth,
It crisps in oil with golden soothe.
It stews in pots with herbs so fine,
Or roasts beside the meat and brine.
In curries rich or simple fries,
It wins our taste, it never lies.
From Irish fields to Indian spice,
It fits in every dish so nice.
The shepherd's pie, the creamy chowder,
The crispy chips, none could be prouder.
Even gnocchi, humble stew,
The potato’s role forever true.
No single food, so round and plain,
Can rule the kitchen like a reign.
It feeds the poor, it fills the feast,
It honors all—great man or priest.
It bears the scars of famine's past,
Yet nourished souls and helped them last.
It crossed the seas from Incan land,
To stretch its gifts with open hand.
It knows no pride, yet gives its all,
It grows where rain and sunlight fall.
A quiet guest at every meal,
With strength that pots and pans reveal.
Oh spud, oh tuber, low and kind,
You ask for nothing, yet you bind
The world in meals both rich and fair,
A golden heart with skin to spare.
With butter, herbs, or simple salt,
Your taste remains without a fault.
In festive feasts or Monday blues,
We turn to you, our tasty muse.
So here’s to you, dear earthy friend,
Whose gifts and comfort never end.
A treasure born from silent ground,
In every bite, your love is found.