When I was a little thing, I spent most summers at my grandmother's old, overgrown farm in the middle of nowhere Mississippi. Without fail, at some point in each visit, I'd find myself in her kitchen as she equipped me with a small, dinky spoon and shoddy bucket. My task? Dig up a field of red potatoes with that spoon—yes, a spoon—and drag the bucket back and forth to her house to drop off my potato haul.
To this day I still wonder why this woman had me out there digging with a spoon, and can't help but think surely there had to be a better way to harvest those dang potatoes.
