They’re better for you than white ones, you know, so I reached in a cupboard in my motor home where I knew I had one more I could bake for Jerry and me to eat for dinner. As I grasped the long tuber, my hand grazed across something lacy, and when I looked, I saw our dinner had taken on a farming specter.
Perhaps it would have been okay to eat had I carefully trimmed the potato, but when I saw those sprouts, I recalled having sweet potato plants in our home when I was a child. From its place on the outside table, I brought this green pot, filled it with water, and am hoping for the best. I can’t remember exactly how to do this–seems we inserted toothpicks to suspend the potato over the water. Not sure.
Then it was off to Crestline again, and when we were approaching Victorville and the Cajon Pass, we saw this heavy appearing cloud of fog lying in the valley ahead of us. Wisps of fog began blowing around us, and within a ten-minute period, the temperature dropped 28 degrees–from 78 to 50. It was uncanny.
The fog stayed with us as we turned onto the mountain road to take us to Crestline, and as we passed trees that had turned now into ghosty beings.