Aselin

This summer I was able to travel with my children to Idaho. It was my first trip to the land of the potato. We went to see family but I admit my attention was completely captured by some of the local color.

I love museums. You could drop me off in almost any museum and pick me up a week later. You’d find me blissfully happy and extremely well read. I have an extremely hard time passing up plaques, inscriptions, and notecards explaining the dates and details of the items on display. I’m sure I get this affectation from my father, who is the only person alive who can out read me in a museum.

Because I remember the tortuous hours spent reclined on museum benches waiting for my own father to finish reading, and because I’m a renowned team player, I temper my reading for my family and try and keep pace. Sheepishly I admit, I have been known to return to local museums the day after our initial visit, unbeknownst to my spouse or progeny to finish reading where I left off. (My secret is now out of the bag).

So imagine my delight when researching ‘things to do in Blackfoot, Idaho I discover that the World Potato Expo is based there, now renamed the “Idaho Potato Museum.” I mean, really, how can you pass something like this up? Not only does it promise to educate patrons on the workings of the potato, but it also boasts the world’s largest baked potato sculpture.

I quivered with kitschy anticipation. We arrived on a Monday, but couldn’t attend until Thursday. Because Blackfoot is not a large town, we would drive by the establishment taunting my with the promise of unfolding knowledge and a free box of hash-browns.

I didn’t know anything about potatoes except they grow underground and taste good with bacon, so in preparation for my visit I set out to explore a local potato field. On a morning run, I found myself squatting next to a furrow, examining the bright green leaves. Fortunately Blackfoot is not densely populated so I was not interrupted as I tried desperately to figure out how they planted, harvested and especially watered the crop.

The giant wheeled sprinkler apparatuses seemed designed to move across the field, but also seemed cumbersome to push and not hooked up to other mechanics. I made a mental note to find out if there were potato elves or an enslaved race of teenagers bonded to push the giant sprinklers. Sadly, no one I talked to knew how they moved the giant sprinklers. I had to go to the source of all knowledge "Wikipedia" to learn about lateral move and central pivot irrigation systems. More sadly, there is not an oppressed group that facilitates either system's movements.

Mercifully Thursday finally came. The children took no coaxing to perch on and around the ginormous potato complete with sour cream and butter. I had gathered other willing attendees for my excursion, so we had quite a group for the museum. As we entered the shrine of potatoness there were all sorts of photos, diagrams and exhibits explaining the origins, life cycle and deification of the potato. In some ancient cultures there was a potato god. America arguably has continued the ancient tradition with our addiction to the french fry.


The rooms unfolded displays of vital potato information


ancient potato sacrifice tools, the largest collection of mashers in the world,


the world’s largest potato chip (donated by Pringles),


heart shaped potatoes, and in a wonderful display of not taking one’s self too seriously, a potato signed by Dan Quayle himself. Complete with a letter of authenticity (potato spelled correctly.)

I can’t tell you how I glowed with potato delight. Even the gift shop was selling a cornucopia of potato novelties. We bought “Idaho Spud” candy bars to sample (did-that-not-doin'-it-again), keychains, magnets and my absolute favorite a new “Darth Tater” apron for when I cook up my complimentary box of hash browns.

Having reached a new hight of culinary fashion, I was completely satisfied for the day.

Now, I wonder what’s in Pocatello?