In an act of defiance, I bought a sack of organic potatoes. I love potatoes. Not drive into the sunset love, or mention-in-my-obituary devotion. But particularly in fall, a bowl of crisply sautéd redskins hits the spot when darkness sneaks in before I am ready. 

There is someone that I live with who does not approve of this. He has said so more than once. Obliquely, of course, pointing out the more nutritious options like spinach. Which he buys in bulk, and smashes into our daily smoothies. I eat the spinach, or rather gulp it. But there is also room in my heart for potatoes. Or technically my stomach. 

I remember that magical summer when I worked in a garden. There were brown mounds of dirt with inedible leaves poking out that I mostly ignored, while weeding the carrot bed. Another man of the earth walked by and told me what I did not know. 

"Your potatoes are ready. Dig em up." 

Huh? I dubiously poked my fingers into the soil, and was shocked to wrap them around a potato. Several, in a family. I pulled them out of hiding and into the light. I could not believe my good luck. Gasping, I burrowed my hands into the next heap. For half an hour, I filled my basket with dirty, misshapen balls of starchy goodness. My appreciation for them doubled that day. 

One of the subplots of living with others, is the inevitability of these opinions. I have a few of my own in regard to my housemates, but I will not dignify them by listing them here. My intention is to dial down the volume on those tendencies. 

It is part of how we humans grow. Pull out the life-choking thoughts, and while we are distracted, God secretly increases the fleshy goodness under our skin.