Potato Harvest-- why is it always hot?

 

                Growing up, I always thought of potato harvest as one on the last tasks of the year. After all, in Farmer Boy, the field is so cold that Almanzo lights a bonfire from the dried vines and roasts a potato or two in the coals to eat while he and his sister pick up the harvest. Tasha Tudor is wrapped in shawls when she hauls her baskets and shovel out to dig her harvest. These are the images I grew up with. I did not grow potatoes until I lived in the Willamette Valley. (True confession—the first time I saw potato plants in a garden, I did not know what they were. No one grew potatoes when I was a young gardener.)

                Why, then, am I always pulling my potatoes on hot, sunny afternoons? I plant them as early as I can. In the ideal schedule, the main crop should go in as the volunteers sprout up in the garden beds. Sometimes I have to wait because the seed potatoes—which come from Maine, usually—have not arrived. Sometimes, the ground is just too wet to be prepped and I have to wait. Even with a bit of delay, the roots are in by late April and the vines are dying down by late July. I’ll turn the water off in the bed so that the ground can dry down before harvest.  I set a cool morning time in my mind and wait for the perfect moment. Then…they come out in an afternoon.

                Usually, I have just finished lunch and I am reading in a shady spot.  I have a good book. I have drunk my second cup of tea. It’s cool and peaceful. Then, the potatoes call. Are they ready? The vines have all melted down to crispy vines and disappeared into the straw mulch. What’s underneath the mulch and soil? How well did they grow? How many pounds? What is the largest tuber? Which variety was the best producer? There is only one way to find out.

Without thinking, I gather paper bags for root cellar storage, my straw hat, and the wheelbarrow.  Maybe a water bottle. First, I pull off the vines and mulch and pile it into the wheelbarrow. A few potatoes tumble out of the bed as I work. Then, I push the dusty earth away from the nests of tubers, gathering the first layers up into the bags. Then, I run my hands deeper into the ground, working some of the mulch into the soil as I search for potatoes.  Finally, I break out the pitchfork, working carefully so that I don’t spear one. The sun beats down. The ground is dry and dusty. I am sweating before I know it. Hunched down around the beds, the slight breeze has disappeared.  It is hot. It is always hot.

When I have found 97% of the potatoes, I am ready to clean up the bed. Compost moves to the chicken run. Potatoes are weighed and tucked into milk crates under the stairs. If I am replanting, I lay the hoses down once more and plant. This year, the first bed has the direct seeded crops: beets and radishes, lettuce and greens. Tools away, I consider the harvest and drink several pint jars of water.  Why didn’t I wait until evening, when the sun is low and the air cooler? How did this become such a hot task, when all of the iconography of potato harvest is from late autumn? Why?

So far this year, we have brought in 14.5 pounds of Caribou russets, 21 pounds of Huckleberry, and about five pounds of volunteers. There are still compost bin taters and another full bed, drying down.