Potato Harvest Violence and Perfect Roast Potatoes

I didn’t see Napoleon Dynamite until it had been out on video for a few months. I remember sitting on a friend’s couch in Los Angeles, watching with a furled brow. I just didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why everyone thought it was so funny. About three-quarters of the way through the film the hilarity struck me. I realized that to the other 10 million Angelinos and most of the world, all things Napoleon were indeed hilarious. It had just gone over my head because it was all so, well, normal to me. I grew up not far from Preston, Idaho, where the movie was filmed. Everything in the movie was familiar. All the aesthetics, the characters, even the fashion. I’ll put my pride in a risky situation to tell you that I even use to wear moon boots to school.

Now that you have the correct visuals in your mind’s eye, I’d like to tell you a story about southeast Idaho. Entertainment doesn’t come easily in this part of the world. There was a movie theater in town. Sometimes an arcade. Sometimes a roller skating rink. For the most part, though, having fun meant coming up with something creative like dropping bowling balls off the college stadium bleachers to see if they would shatter.

For the less creative types there was dragging main. I’m not certain if the concept of dragging main is a universal concept, but I’ll explain how to do it in Rexburg, Idaho just in case. Drive down one side of the street, turn around in the court house parking lot. Drive down the other side of the street, turn around in the Circle K parking lot. Repeat. For hours. Preferably in a fancy pick up truck with ridiculously large tires, a lift, and glass packs to give it an overly obnoxious sound.

If you didn’t know where your friends were on a Friday or Saturday night, you had pretty good chances of finding them by lapping Main Street a few times. If you wanted a boyfriend, you had a pretty good chance of finding one by lapping Main Street a few times. Surely there was a male from a neighboring town looking for love in all the wrong (right?) places as well. In the mood for a brawl? Yup. Head to Main Street. All you had to do was flip the bird at the right (wrong?) person and pretty soon fists were flying.

I spent time doing all of the above activities. In the end I favored the more creative, adventurous pursuits, but there is no denying that dragging main served a few important functions in my life.

One warm summer evening I was sitting shotgun in my friend’s convertible Mustang. Well, it wasn’t really hers. Her father owned the local Ford dealership and there was always a marginally made American vehicle at our adolescent disposal. Usually a Tempo or Taurus, but every now and then she would get to take out something a little more fun. On this evening, we had just made a stop at my house and I was hungry so I grabbed a can of peaches and a fork. In the back seat were two male passengers. My scrawny step-brother, a couple years younger than me, and a cousin visiting from Arizona. As we rounded the corner by Me-N-Stan’s, the local coffee shop, I spotted one of the aforementioned jacked up trucks and immediately my fight or flight response kicked in. I clenched my can of peaches and my eyes narrowed into furious little slits.

The owner of the truck was the son of a local farmer. He and his father were crooks that had swindled me out of hundreds of dollars. The previous fall they employed my best friend and I to help harvest their potatoes. We spent several freezing, miserable days being drug around on a trailer behind the potato truck plucking rotten spuds off a conveyer belt. It was an icy, uninspiring, filthy, horrible job. I took it, though, knowing I could earn some good money and share some quality time and some laughs with my BFF.

Only we never got paid. Every time we would call the farmers to ask where our money was they would give us some lame excuse until eventually we stopped asking. The anger never subsided, however, and when I spotted their truck that night, I acted in sheer brilliance.

I hucked the can of peaches at their prized truck.

A high speed chase ensued. The Mustang should have smoked them, but the driver of the vehicle was no Mario Andretti. We sped through town, darting in and out of neighborhoods trying to ditch them, but weren’t able to get enough distance between us to make a break. For some reason, the driver was worried about the top being down and made what could have been a fatal (literally – trucks are not to be messed with in small towns) error. She pulled into a drive way and parked the car so she could put the top up. It only took a few seconds for the truck to reach us. The driver and passenger flew out of their truck, smoke pouring from their ears, flinging obscenities that would have made the devil himself uncomfortable. In the millisecond it took for them to approach us we all silently wondered who was going to get the wrath of these boys. The girls in the front? The underdeveloped, preppy boys in the back? I didn’t look back, but I wouldn’t be surprised if their teeth were chattering in fear. Our potential assailants were the quintessential small town bullies. Tall ball caps on their heads, mullet hair poking out the back, Marlboro tee shirts with the sleeves cut off (to display their muscly arms) and a pair of well worn shit kickers (aka cowboy boots).

And they had the fury.

I decided that since I started this, I better do the fighting. I stood up on the seat and stuck my finger into the face of my enemy and asserted my angsty claim. “You owe me money.”

The end.

The fight ended just like that. The driver ran back to his truck as fast as he’d exited it and it was over. I’m still puzzled by the anticlimactic ending, but man, what a relief it was to see their tail lights round the corner into obscurity. It took a while for our hearts to recover. I never saw a dime of that potato harvest money, but seeing his face when I pointed out his misconduct was priceless.

Dragging main has since been banned in Rexburg and I no longer eat canned peaches. I do, however, giggle every time I make potatoes and remember changing that dude’s pride into a perfect pile of potato mash.

Today, in honor of my Idaho potato infused youth, I’m excited to share with you my favorite spud recipe. It’s delicious and cosmopolitan enough to be served at any table from Los Angeles to Preston, Idaho.

Perfect Roast Potatoes

These are really tasty. I don’t have a precise recipe for this, I just throw them together and they are different every time. Tinker around until they are perfect for you.

2-3 lbs potatoes (russet, red, Yukon – they all work well)
1-2 Tbs olive or coconut oil
sea salt
any other flavoring you like

-Preheat oven to hot (400-450ish…see not very precise)
-Start a large pot of water boiling (enough water to cover the potatoes you’re about to cube). Add salt to water if you’re so inclined
-Rinse potatoes well
-Cube potatoes into whatever size cube you want to go into your mouth. Anywhere from 1/4 to 3/4 inch. Totally up to you.
-Place them in boiling water and watch carefully. We want the potatoes to boil for about 3 minutes, but not too long or they will taste like roasted mashed potatoes…NOT what we’re going for
-Drain the water and return the potatoes to the pan.
-Here’s the vitally important part. Place the lid on the pan. Holding the lid firmly shut with both hands (use mitts if necessary), shake the pan vigorously for 20-30 seconds. We want to create “fuzz” on the surface of the potato. This will create a delicious crust on the potatoes once they’re cooked.
-Place potatoes on a cookie sheet and drizzle with oil. Don’t use too much or they’ll taste fried. Just use enough to coat them all lightly. We don’t want them swimming in oil.
-Season with salt and anything else you want them to taste like. I use Italian seasoning blend sometimes, garlicy BBQ rubs sometimes, rosemary, sage, really anything you have on hand. Parmesan is delicious.
-Stir well
-Bake 25-40 min depending on the size of the cubes and the temp of the oven (sorry I can’t provide more exact instructions). Stir half way through.

You’ll know they’re done when they are crusty and golden on the outside and are soft on the inside.

Serve immediately