How the potato took root

Despite its fatal role in the Famine, our love for the ‘humble spud’ continues, says Louise Roseingrave

IN a cabin cottage 500 yards beyond where the road becomes a track to Carrauntoohil in the Black Valley, Co Kerry, a pot of potatoes is boiling.

The windows are fogged up. The year is 1984, the inhabitants are Molly and Cait, my grand-aunts, serving supper: A giant plate of steaming potatoes peeping out from within their skins, crowned with a chunk of melting butter.