Yesterday I was sifting through a bag of little red potatoes, picking out the ones that weren't soft. For some reason I just thought the soft ones weren't good any more. I honestly don't know where I learned that. In any case, I sifted, and at the end of my bad potato-be-gone escapade, I had about a dozen "good" ones and a big pile of "bads" that I threw in the trash. I stared at the trash, the little soft ones forming a potato layer of insulation for the garbage below it. And I had a blast of thought - about my grandfather, and him and his family being so poor and only having potatoes to eat. And then it popped into my head, a potato famine that impacted the Irish so horribly. I wondered if, like me, they all thought the soft potatoes weren't good to eat? I think their parameters and circumstances were completely and utterly different. I also can't assume that they didn't have their own experience of privilege (like mine of trash...