Saturday, December 26, 2009
Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler
Christmas is over, and I am taking a break from packing away the decorations to post a quick poem to GAG. This is not a holiday poem, but it was a gift, of sorts.
I have a very good friend who lives in New South Wales, Australia. Ali g is currently visiting family in Africa with his lovely wife, and even though I haven't spoken to him for a couple of weeks, he's been on my mind, nonetheless.
Last summer it came to my attention that this man only ate potatoes which were frozen and came from a bag. Well, that revelation was astounding to this girl who began her life in northern Maine, a place famous for its logging industry and its potato-based agriculture. I couldn't believe that my friend had never experienced the epicurean delights of a potato that had been mashed, baked or stuffed straight from its glorious, raw form! It was my duty, as his favorite gal from Maine, to make Ali g a connoisseur of les pommes de terre!
So, I sent him some.
Alas, there are party poopers the world over. Apparently, it is taboo to mail the products of a farming woman's labor and love across international borders. For, instead of potatoes, my friend received a notice from Australian Customs. Instead of a nice side dish of Maine taters, Ali g got a letter telling him that his carton of potatoes had been confiscated and destroyed!
Exactly how does one 'destroy' a potato? I've simply GOT to know what Customs did to my pertetters! Surely, the act of peeling, boiling, mashing and then EATING a potato would ensure the complete eradication of a tuber! Would't it? Just imagine all the tax dollars that could have been saved if Australian Customs had allowed nature (and a simple country girl) to handle the issue!
I was worried that my impulsive act had embarrassed my friend, and I wrote him the following ditty by way of apology. But Ali g is far tougher than I gave him credit for, and he has a marvelous sense of humor, besides. What did he do upon receiving my poem?
He promptly forwarded it to the Customs Office in Sydney! If those good folks didn't recognize my name before, they've got it memorized now! Thanks, Ali g. I believe this makes us 'even'.
Never let it be said that I don't learn from my mistakes. No posting taters Down Under! Got it!
I miss you, my friend. And never fear; I'll find a way to provide you with an authentic Maine experience. What are your thoughts on fiddleheads? Sauteed in butter and garlic? Hmmm? Keep an eye out for a package once you return home, won't you?
Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler
There once was a farm girl from Maine
Who danced in the nude to make rain.
When needing some sun,
Then naked she’d run
(Nude dancing and running were pains.)
But she was a maiden devoted.
Her spuds, while with dirt they were coated,
Still needed attention--
And that’s why I mention
Just what all her nudeness denoted.
And then came the wonderful day
When this Kazza turned over the clay
And pulled from the ground
Potatoes so round…
They’d been incubating since May!
The goddess then took four young spuds
And washed from their skin-- dirt and mud.
In paper she wrapped…
T’was newsprint she’d scrapped…
And packed them to mail to her bud.
See, Ali's a funny old geezer…
Eats taters he pulls from the freezer.
They’re already sliced,
Or shredded or diced
He swears they’re an appetite pleaser.
But Kazza, that girl from the hills
Knows frozen spuds can’t give you thrills.
She did her utmost
To mail through the post
Potatoes, quite whole, with no frills.
But the Customs man checking Down Under
Did heft Kazza’s parcel and wonder
If it held cocaine
That was grown up in Maine…
(Do you grow it? Or is that a blunder?)
Well, anyway, Customs had cause
To check that box shipped into Oz.
Potatoes they found…
Who knew they were round?
And dimpled and brown? Were they flaws?
This girl who did farming while naked
Promoted potatoes whole bak-ed.
Not pulled from a sack
Piled on pan, slid on rack…
She wanted that concept forsak-ed!
But Aussies don’t grow their potatoes…
At best, they can raise some tomatoes.
They’d rather eat fries
Or ‘chips’, I surmise…
To eat with their pasta al fredo.
The Customs man sent him a letter.
He said, ‘I must keep your pertetter.
It is contraband
I’m slapping your hand!
These veggies are doomed for the shredder.’
The SWAT team was thusly deployed
And Kazza’s potato-- destroyed.
When assumed it had died,
That spud-- it was fried
And Customs, those chips they enjoyed.
Now Ali's distressed, it would seem.
His whole life it had been his dream…
Potato skins crisp
Were now will o’ the wisp…
As were bacon, and chives…sour cream.
But Kazza will not let him down!
Those customs guys gave her a frown
They dared confiscate
Food meant for his plate,
And caused her to look like a clown!
She knew that her heart--it held purity!
What nerve—to make her feel dir-ity!
So spuds she did pack
In her carry-on sack…
She’d chance it with Homeland Security!
They patted her down in the lobby.
It seemed an unwarranted jobby!
Her bra could not hold
Potatoes so bold!
Perhaps it was more of a hobby!
The x-ray guard then let her through
She sat down to put on her shoe.
They called out her flight--
The timing was tight!
To make it—through airport she flew!
She was the last one on the plane.
Getting frisked was a heck of a pain!
As the plane reached the skies
Her potatoes were still back in Maine.
So Kazza, now quite empty-handed
In Australia much later she landed.
She promptly was cuffed,
In a prison bus stuffed…
For leaving her carry-on stranded.
Oh, and Ali g? I've sent you another amazing gift while you've been traveling. I know you'll like it! It's called 'rain', and I danced my butt off to deliver it to your home. Phew! I'm exhausted. And COLD!
You're very welcome.