Yes, it’s Holy Week. Whatever theological significance that might hold, from the time we first moved to the farmstead and began to plan a garden we were routinely told - even by those with less experience than we (if such a thing was possible) that it had great horticultural significance. “Are you going to plant your potatoes on Good Friday? You are supposed plant potatoes on Good Friday.”
Never mind that central Iowa - solidly situated in the heart of agricultural growing zone 5 - is as likely as not to have soil still frozen below planting depth this time of year, very possibly with a fresh blanket of snow covering the surface. In fact, just yesterday the sun awoke to 21-degrees; thankfully the snow was conspicuous by its absence. There is a month swing between the earliest possible Good Friday and the latest - March 20-April 23 - and so it seems like an odd cultivational benchmark to adopt. Even that latter box on the calendar barely falls outside the last average freeze date for this area. Hardly a climatological sweet spot.
So how did Good Friday and potatoes come to be such storied bedfellows - at least in the mythology of gardening wisdom?
According to the Farmers Almanac, the tuber traces its religious roots to fear, superstition, and theological role modeling.
Amber Kanuckel writes: “In the 1600s, potatoes were just arriving in Europe and Europeans were suspicious of the tuber, believing that it might be evil. The French, believing that potatoes caused leprosy, officially outlawed them in 1748.
“To try and safeguard themselves against potential misfortune, daring farmers started planting potatoes on Good Friday, but only after sprinkling their gardens with Holy Water.” (Amber Kanuckel, "Good Friday and Potatoes,” Farmers Almanac)
Good Friday, Kanuckel goes on to suggest, because of its connection to Easter. Death and burial, followed by resurrection. Burying sin so that new life can emerge. Potatoes, presumably, are suppose to “get” the hint and follow suit. “What you sow,” the Apostle Paul noted, “does not come to life unless it dies.” (1 Corinthians 15:36)
Ok, then.
The transformation of death, I understand. That other part? Hmm. However specious it all sounds to my rational sensibilities, and nonsensically incompatible to my religious ones, it is a fancifully appealing thought to my more poetic leanings. I’m increasingly drawn to the notion that there is more to this sowing and reaping, living and dying, heaven and earth business than meets our analytical, scientific, either/or eye. We can scoff at any notion of a garden’s spirituality, reducing it all to growing days, moisture maintenance and adequate levels of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium in the soil. But Jesus, himself, while teaching about the Kingdom of God, observed that a farmer “scatters seed on the ground. He sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows; he knows not how” (Mark 4:26).
"He knows not how." That's the part that pulls at me. Whatever we may think we know about the horticultural intricacies - whatever science we may honor, whatever superstitions we may apply, whatever past learnings we may employ - there is yet mystery at work in it all. If seed potatoes choose, then, to join my Good Friday prayers and share my Easter morning celebrations, I am happy to have their company in the choir. A little garden-rooted spirituality couldn’t hurt.
And, yes, prayed.
As the old refrain once promised, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!” Good Friday, and then Easter.
Potatoes, I trust you are paying attention?
