"What on earth is this thing?" Liv asked as she squinted through the haze of her fading eyesight at a bulbous tuber, heavy in her hands.

The traveling trader grinned. "It's called a potato. It comes from Amerika."

She sniffed the pale lump. "Not very fresh, then, is it?"

He laughed. "This particular potato didn't come all the way across the sea, but that's where the first ones came from. Indians grow them in South Amerika."

"Indian food?" asked Gunnhild. The six-year-old had hiked the three miles from Dalen with her father to return a tool he had borrowed for repairs to his sawmill. "I thought they just ate buffalo!" She drew an imaginary bow and shot several arrows at the closest bison. The woolly beast blinked, bleated, and went back to nibbling weeds near the fence.

"If I were an Indian," Liv told Gunnhild, "I'd get tired of the same old meat every day." She turned back to the trader.

"This one I got from a farmer on the coast," the man said, "who got his first tubers from a man in Kristiania. Country folk in England and Ireland have been growing them for nigh on fifty years now."

"What does it taste like?" Liv wanted to know, forever looking for alternatives to bland barley porridge. Their wheat crop never thrived, especially not in years with cool rainy summers which happened more and more often of late.

"Let me join you for dinner, and I'll show you how to boil it up. Simple, really. Then, if you want more, I'll give you a good price on a whole bag."

"I doubt I'd like it so well I'd want that many all at once."

He waved a hand. "Not to eat. To plant! They're easy to grow, don't mind the cold or the damp. See these little dimples? They're called 'eyes.' Just cut the tuber in chunks so each chunk has an eye and plant them a couple inches deep."

"It can't be that easy."

"Lots of babies being born in Ireland, and none of 'em going hungry! Feed 'em on potatoes and milk, and they grow up strong and healthy. A proven fact. Here, I've got testimonials about the quality of this miracle tuber." He produced a sheaf of dog-eared papers.

"Nearly as magical as Frigg's golden apples, from what these folks say," Liv mused as she peered at one leaflet after another. She shrugged. "Stay for midday meal, then, and we'll give it a try."

"We're having Frigg's magic po-teh-toes for dinner!" chanted Gunnhild. "May I help cook them?"

"I believe your father is nearly ready to leave, Gunna." Liv gave the child a hug. "But if they turn out as tasty as the trader says," she whispered in Gunnhild's ear, "I'll buy a few extra and cook them up next time you visit."

The trader left happy that evening, his pocket a little heavier with coins and his wagon a little lighter. Torjus enthused about the new crop in spite of Halvor's misgivings. "You said the farm is mine now, Far," Torjus said, putting his foot down. "I want to give this a try."

"Ja, give it a chance, dearest," Liv said, looking forward to adding potatoes to the menu in the fall. The trader had hinted she could add cooked potatoes to flatbread dough to give the large, thin wafers a softer texture. She couldn't wait to taste the results.

.

BEHIND THE SCENES

Kristiania is another name for Oslo.

In more recent times, Scandinavians have shown high fascination with stories of Amerika's Old West. My husband's cousin lives in Denmark and self-published a little book about cowboys, having seen the demand.

My potato crop did well this year (2020), despite being unplanned and somewhat neglected. When pandemic strikes and your potatoes are sprouting anyway, plant in whatever corner is available, a safeguard against the collapse of society. Fortunately, society hasn't yet collapsed!