Last winter, I shivered and plotted verdant revenge on an unpleasant season; in particular, I dreamed of planting potatoes in differing containers and learning as much as I could about the ins and outs of it. I read up. I researched. I pestered people who grew potatoes at home. I bought seed potatoes and schemed madly. Perhaps I was sitting quietly much of that time, but if I were a Batman villain, we’d be up to the scene with the buzzsaw and color-coordinated flunkies warming up the getaway zeppelin.

For two weeks after we planted the potatoes nothing happened. I worried. I fretted. I wrote pitiful laments. When bold green shoots suddenly appeared, I rejoiced; the shoots soon turned to leaves. The idea was to wait four inches, then cover the stems with dirt and compost so the stems turned into roots. I mounded. I re-mounded. Suddenly, I could not re-mound the soil fast enough and some leaves were almost level with the top of the potato bags and planters. Pete and I realized we had to add some vertical distance for our tubers to travel.

So. We developed a plan. We have no experience growing potatoes, so we’re guessing. We stretched some chicken wire around the inside of the pots and the bags, securing the column with loose wire. Then we draped weed fabric around the sides so we can shovel dirt without it falling out everywhere. I set up the last column today and my arms are covered with wire scratches, but if it works, I’ll hardly miss my epidermis.