Everything in the world is either a potato or not a potato.

Who was it said that?

Dog Days ended. I had my last dog. I’d always wanted a Sonic Foot-long Coney Dog. Jill sought a Big Pickle Burger, its flavor from pickle fries and dill slices.

I couldn’t tell where the bun ended and the dog’s chili meringue began. Jill’s fries weren’t as good, potato-wise, as our side order of Tots. Our buns were like white bread from school days. Think little doughball pellets.

One and done. At four we had our just desserts.

National Potato Day came.

We celebrated with oven-baked potato and ham casserole. (Yes! Inside, not on the grill!) The potatoes were of fitting size, not this year’s garish normal. We gave this important day a tasteful tribute.

The Spanish brought potatoes from the Americas to Europe in the late 1500s. Thence we know the fame of the Irish and Poles with potatoes; and there’s vodka. Spuds are everywhere. Think French fries. (Were they French?) Or try curly. (Nrk, nrk, nrk. Woo, woo, woo, woo!) Yum!

As Dog Days ended, roasting green chilé aromas graced the air. Apples abounded. Hacienda Home Tours flourished. Next, that special time of year I think of curly fries. Indian Markup, then before long, the State Fair and Fiesta.

Monsoon ends in a month and a half. The rains may end. Indian Summer: soon. The cooling air brings time for baked potatoes once more.

We may measure our lives in potatoes. One potato, two potato, three potato, four…

Who was it said that?