An integral part of country living is community and even if we live in the 21st century, some things don’t change and certain tasks continue to be better done in groups, such as the annual wine harvest. Grape-picking is one of my favorite times of the year. Although you wake up at an ungodly hour and hardly have time to drink your tea before your father-in-law is honking at the gate, once you arrive at the vineyard, all grumpiness evaporates with the morning mist. An ambiance of general goodwill and joviality reigns at the wine harvest and especially at the midday meal during which many a newcomer has ended up in the giant grape barrel. And despite muscles hurting the next day that you didn’t even know that you had, you don’t think twice about re-donning your old rubber boots and hitting the vineyard again.
Picking potatoes is another annual activity that one can simply not do alone. I discovered potato picking rather recently and was naïve enough to think that the experience would be like picking grapes. After all, in French, "potatoes" translated literally are "apples of the Earth" which is a pretty charming image. What a fool I was. There are some similarities, such as the morning grogginess, the father-in-law honking at the gate, and the unspeakable soreness in the thighs and buttocks, but the commonalities stop right around there. Simply put, picking potatoes is a royal pain in the arse. Unlike grape-picking, after one row of potatoes, everyone starts bitching. The general air of irritability is contagious and by two rows, you are ready to disembowel the unfortunate soul who suggests mashed potatoes with dinner.
My mother-in-law and I often end up working together, whether it be pulling weeds in the garden or making raspberry jam and she sometimes asks me how to say different things in English: leeks, raspberries, zucchini, etc. One day, while plum picking, I had surveyed the carpet of plums awaiting us and said to her in English, "Fuck plums." She had looked at me sideways, eyebrows pinched together slightly and mouth pursed, and I had decided not to pursue that particular English lesson. That is, until we found ourselves drinking water at the top of one of those damn rows of potatoes and my mother-in-law looked at me gravely and said emphatically in perfect English, "Fuck potatoes." As I stared at her in amazement, she matter-of-factly turned and headed back down the field.
So if you ever meet my mother-in-law, don't be surprised if she greets you with something like, "Hello, my name is Michèle. Fuck potatoes."
