“Hoo boy. OK. I guess. Really shouldn’t have put those things on the menu, heh.” He wipes a dishcloth across his brow, smearing week-old gravy into the already mucky creases. “Here’s the deal. I’ve got four sacks of these Potato Mines out back and the wife wants rid of them in the worst way. She told me to dump ’em into the harbour but I’m worried they’ll take out somebody’s brand new yacht, or punch a hole in one of those fancy dan cruise ships. So I says to her, “They’re food. We can cook ’em. I can whip up a real good potato salad. Fresh, y’know?” First one I tried to boil blew up in the pan. Went through five or six before I realised, you’ve got to eat ’em raw. Keep ’em wrapped tight in cloth, in a cool, dry place, and they won’t go BANG unless you jostle ’em about too much.
“So I can serve one up, with creamy dill dressing, my own special five-herb and caper mix on the side, and smoked paprika to taste. The Potato Mine will be raw but I hear they’re delicious, if you can manage to wolf one down before it goes off. The eyes are as sweet as sugar and the skin ain’t what you’d expect. Sort of salty, but good salty, y’know? Course, even if you manage to swallow the thing it’s probably going to blow a hole in your gut so it better taste good, huh?
“Oh, and I’m going to have to ask you to dine (you can’t say dine without die, HA) in the basement. I’ve hung some old bedsheets on the wall so I won’t have to get a mop up there when the show’s over.”