Peck of Dirt

My mother used to say that you ate a peck of dirt in your lifetime.  I’m not sure where she came across this bit of wisdom or what standard she used for a lifetime, but I suspect it was close to the truth.  She might have developed this theory while watching my older sister shove gravel into her mouth while she sat in the alley behind our house, waving down strangers to take her away to a better and more hygienically oriented household.  (She always claimed to be adopted.)  Or maybe it was from my mother’s personal experience in the suburban garden she tended where tomatoes, cucumbers, basil and green onions seemed to magically appear.  How did I miss these clues to my ultimate vocation?  I am kneeling now in the dry dirt pulling spuds from the reluctant earth.  My nails will not need clipping until winter.

As children we resolutely ignored everything she said except, “Time for dinner!” Or more pertinently, “You just wait until your father gets home.”  Nothing really dramatic happened when my dad got home, except that he kissed my mom and we were finally allowed to eat.  On Wednesdays, that was nine people negotiating a bowl of spaghetti.

That’s what I think about when the bowl in front of me is full of chicken from last year’s flock, kale riddled with the incipient lunch of a cabbage worm, and a new potato that retains a fleck of soil in spite of my earnest attempt to maintain the food safety guidelines of the FDA.  I think about my mom picking up a newly dug potato and nibbling on the end with a mischievous smile, announcing to the world, “You need to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”  I’m not sure what her theory was concerning the consumption of insects.  I think I might have missed that one in the fray of fighting for my corner of the spaghetti bowl.  But what I do know for sure is that the person sitting next to you is as important as the grain of earth you are about to thoughtlessly consume for the sake of an old Irish woman’s theory on culinary art – and life.