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Just past the tip end of the growing season each year, my grandparents put their sizable kitchen garden to bed for the winter. It was a daylong lullaby. We harvested the last of the straggling vegetables, pulled up the spindly stalks and shriveled vines, then searched one last time for anything we could stow in the sheltering end of the basement that served as our root cellar.

The turnips, rutabagas, beets, onions, and carrots had shrugged their shoulders up out of the garden, but the potatoes hid underground until the upheaval of their harvest. My playful chore was to kick and shuffle my little boots through the raked potato hills to look for any strays. Our potatoes emerged coated in the good earth that had hosted and nurtured them, which in our patch of Watauga County was topsoil so dark and rich it looked like crumbled chocolate cake.

Our final act on the garden’s closing night was to build a low fire to burn the last of the plant debris and armloads of brittle fallen leaves. My granddaddy would later sprinkle the powdery ashes over the bare garden, where they settled as softly as the first snow that often came less than a month later.

Once the flames died down, my grandmother would nestle potatoes, including my ragtag lagniappe finds, along the edge of the crackling embers to roast. When ready, the deeply browned potato skins were so thick and crisp they nearly shattered when my granddaddy cracked them open with his Barlow knife, but the creamy flesh inside was tender and fragrant.

After salt, butter, and a blessing, my grandmother placed my potato into my mittened hands, reminding me to blow on each bite lest it burn my whistle. As dusk lowered its curtain on the day, we feasted by the flickering light, dodging the smoke and teasing one another that “smoke follows beauty.” While it’s possible I’ve eaten more delicious potatoes at some point since, I’m certain none have been more memorable.

• • •

Taters. My grandparents raised some sort of russet or Kennebec, I suppose, but they referred to all varieties other than sweet potatoes as Arsh taters, their Appalachian vernacular for Irish potatoes in the lyrical accent that graces my family’s mother tongue. I’ve read that Andeans, the first people to cultivate potatoes, have more than a thousand words for their crop. Potatoes were one of the first foods grown in outer space. This thought delights me.

Decades have passed since my days spent digging spuds, yet a single whiff of woodsmoke or roasting potatoes rouses those memories. Our food memories, even the wordless ones that are nothing more (or less) than an aroma wafting across a thought, feed the stories we tell ourselves — and the world — about who we were, who we came to be, and who we might be yet. Other than notes from some long-ago song, I can think of nothing more evocative than the peerless aroma of something familiar, reassuring, and delicious. It’s instant time travel along the crooked paths back into our personal history.

I no doubt have details wrong about those garden fires, a few images whittled down by time and others sharpened by my need to hang on to them. But lack of precision doesn’t diminish the power of my recollections of those phoenix potatoes. The persuasion of food memories rooted deep within us — both good and bad, for better and for worse — isn’t accuracy. It’s association. Proust had his madeleines. The little mountain child inside me has her taters.

photograph by Tim Robison

Pretty Much Perfect Oven-Baked Potatoes

An oven can’t replicate the smoke, smolder, and wonderment of a good campfire, but it can yield delicious baked potatoes with crisp, well-seasoned skins and fluffy interiors. It might seem fussy to write a recipe, but the glory is in the details of this method. Each simple step matters. Serve them straight from the oven, crowned with whatever toppings excite you. My favorite potato toppings are copious amounts of butter, sour cream, crunchy garnishing salt, and cracked pepper.

Yield: 4 servings.

4 large russet potatoes of similar size and shape
½ cup warm tap water
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 to 2 tablespoons oil

Position a rack in the middle of the oven and heat to 450°. Meanwhile, rest a wire rack inside a baking sheet.

Rub each potato with your hands under cool running water to remove any surface dirt. If necessary, use a dishcloth to loosen excess dirt. Blot potatoes dry and pierce them in several places with a fork.

In a medium bowl, stir together water and salt until salt dissolves. Dip each potato in brine to wet completely. Transfer to wire rack, spacing them evenly.

Bake until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the potato centers registers 205°, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Remove potatoes from oven and brush outsides with oil. Return them to oven for 10 minutes to crisp skins.

Remove potatoes from oven and cut an “X” in the top of each with the tip of a knife. Using a towel, gently press the ends of each potato toward the middle so they open. Serve at once, seasoned and garnished to your liking.