The Luck of the Irish: Potatoes (an old 'favourite')

(From December 7th 2004)

The potato is writ large in Irish history. A lack of them caused famine, disease and death in the 1840s and 50s. A surfeit of them are to be found in any mammy's culinary repetoire to this day. I have always loved the potato, baked, boiled, fried, mashed, roasted, chipped. However last week my love affair was compromised and the potato and I are not back on friendly terms. Yet.

I sat down to eat my dinner alone on Friday. Fresh veg, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and of course roast potatoes. I had only had a few mouthfuls when a piece of potato -- and if I'm honest, I knew that it was a bit too large but went ahead anyway -- became lodged in my throat. At first I was only slightly annoyed, and thought if I just kept swallowing it would go down. I soon realised this wasn't going to work. If it wouldn't come down I'd have to bring it up, but this wasn't working either. I began to worry. Worry turned to panic. I've seen the episode of Six Feet Under where the opening death is a single woman who dies for want of a heimlich manoeuvre! Panic was not going to help so I decided that I would calm myself by slowing down and breathing through my nose. It wasn't happening. Now I'm sure it was, but I felt like the potato was blocking all air, and even if it wasn't, it was certainly cutting down the amount that was getting there.

Inside I was screaming "You're going to die, you're going to die here all alone and your cat will eat you!" I mentally slapped myself, but I was rather scared by this point. I continued to try to hoick up the potato, nothing doing, and then I decided that was that and went out of my front door. If I had to accost a passer by to smack my back or squeeze the potato out of me, so be it. I certainly wasn't going to be killed by a lump of vegetable!

As luck would have it as soon as I hit the fresh air, the hoicking worked and enough potato came up to dislodge the lump. Some came up, the rest went down after a bit more hard swallowing, and if I was seen looking like a barefoot tramp vomiting on my own doorstep, what of it! I was alive. I had defeated the potato.

I haven't eaten a potato since. I will; I love them too much to hold a quasi-near death experience against them forever. Next time, however, I'll make sure I cut them up a wee bit smaller.