Okay, so we’re not growing Jack Daniels, we’re growing potatoes in one of the Tennessee distillery’s well-loved whiskey barrels.
Our neighbor, Wilson, loaned us a great book called The City Homesteader: Self-Sufficiency on Any Square Footage. It digs into urban gardening and touches on everything from how to raise kids (as in goats) to what to do with all of the dog poop (or in Wilson’s case, Chicken shit) that piles up in your back yard. The index of the book contains words like foraging, cellaring, keets and worm tea. I think we’ll stick to the potato section of the book for the moment. And that was Wilson’s intent. The spud chapter was marked and along with the book, there was also a brown bag of certified seed German Butterball potato starters repleat with sprouting eyes and a label proclaiming: “Unrivaled in flavor!” (they even included the exclamation point so they must really mean it).
Wilson’s book swears that I’ll be able to tell the difference between a homegrown murphy and a Harris Teeter tater. Word is that tubers lose all of their moisture as they huddle together in hot semi-trailers bouncing down Idaho dirt roads and rolling through smoky truck stops. Our Atlanta-grown potatoes are supposed to be as juicy as an apple, or in our case, as juicy as an Apple Jack (apple schnapps and Jack Daniels). Hey wait, don’t they make vodka out of potatoes? Doc B could brew some delish Ashwaganda tincture. I’m not sure we’re ready for a moonshine still in our yard – plus, all that copper would be stolen before any booze would come out of it. Maybe I’ll settle for eating the butterballs on national vichyssoise day in November. Guess I better get some leeks planted ASAP.