Les pommes de terre vont bien.

Some people get annual Christmas letters. We get monthly farmer co-op letters updating us on the progress of the application of a bacteria to stave off a fly whose larvae are wreaking some serious havoc on the carrots. I swear to God, the way Marion describes the rows of her blossoming squash and potatoes, it feels like a warm, intimate letter from a family friend describing a wayward child's good grades. There's a level of caring and adoration implicit in her three-page informational emails; when I arrive at the sentence "The potatoes are doing well," I imagine a couple of old, wrinkly spuds sitting in rocking chairs on a sinking porch, holding hands.