Po-ta-toes Examined

Potato Grading, Literally.

Since working in the packhouse with placentas, I have moved on to a new form of employment: potato grading.

The best part about the job? It’s not placentas. You know that phrase, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone? In this case, I didn’t realize how bad it was until it was over.

Now I look at potatoes all day as an official potato grader. Here are some of my specimens, followed by their grades.

 Grade: B

Cute, obviously going for the emotional angle.

  Grade: B-

Points for symmetry, but I'm not really seeing much effort here.

Grade: A-

I'm really feeling the sculpture approach. Great effort.

Admit it. You were high.

 Go home potato. You're drunk.

Of course, most average out at a C - those are the ones you're seeing in the supermarket. Or most likely, as your french fries (chips) or potato chips (...chip chips...)

In reality, my job is to stand on the back of a potato harvester and watch the potatoes come by on a conveyor belt. Anything that's not a potato, i.e. rocks, weeds, dirt, the occasional pine cone, get's thrown out. Everything that is a potato goes into bins that are then loaded onto trucks.

It's pretty simple. I have zero complaints.

One of two harvesters

Sara looking for rocks! Oh boy!

Rotten po-ta-toes