I pan fried purple potatoes for supper the other day. Nestled in the blackened cast iron pan, they were a sight. They came from my favorite local farm, organic, fresh, full of moisture and life. I’ve never seen a potato so beautifully purple all the way through, shades of shades of purple, like a fine piece of hand-dyed cloth that registers a palpable flow of color.
If I could assign a color to my life right now, it would be this purple in the pan. It is the color of spirit moving through my days of calm, resilience, and solitude, the color I see in passing awareness. Three years of living life to my own rhythm and beat, punctuated by needs of the four-legged’s that share this home with me has been a life full of shades, of the ups and downs of reckoning with just me. It is the first time I have emptied out drawers and closets to make space for another human here. Daughter Molly is coming home!
And then, after a time, when the potatoes had been cooking just so long, I began to turn them to reveal an indescribable shade of browned purple, flashing gold. It was the color of cooked to perfection, crisp on the outside, soft and pliable on the inside, something new ready to be savored.
The last time I saw a purple potato was when I was visiting Molly in Peru. It feels like a sign, a premonition of something alive and fresh about to breeze through. That she is arriving with her beloved cat Jupiter (pronounced ‘hoopeeter’) means she has left her beloved second home in search of something new. Life is about to change. Two dogs, a cat and a daughter all under one roof. For however long. I can’t wait.