Cooked to their doneous,
True boiled potatoes,
The water vanished like a David Copperfield plane!
Today, two tornadoes touched down on Iowa,
March thirty-first two twenty-three,
Historic,
Day started at fifty, and before I was behind the wheel the temperture had zoomed to sixty-six made it all the way to seventy-six,
I sold a Scott O’Dell book love that author,
There is no book you can not read,
Books are not aged out of your reach,
Why Walter Farely’s books are stuck in the child’s area in a library blows my mind!
Wish had not had those three potatoes on all night ,
They are done truly now,
Not one outdoor animal paid any mind to that stupid chicken salad I set out of the door,
There was just enough of that chicken crappy ass salad to flavir the water with the potatoes water to fill the house[motorhome though it is my home,though I dream if sixty acreas abd a swell basement under a nice Amish house with hydronic lift,]
I don’t think the aroma will ever properly leave my home,
It will be in years to vote that weird ghost aroma I will recall the weird day after turning off my rock soup with undone potatoes the night before I prayed not to die with my kitty family on the tornados on the thirty-first of March 2023 and have strangers vote into home,
I can.nearly imagine no ones carrying but Penny for our dead loved ones and saying ‘Marv its odd, but I swear I smell potatoes.
Val Whitewolf 