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... Read more.
