I suppose you might say that my potato had already sprouted. The whole raison d'être of this potato is the sprouts. Without the sprouts, the potato would have met the grim fate of most potatoes. It would be, one might say, down the proverbial creek without a paddle. (That's not true. Our sewage goes to a lagoon, not a creek. And in any case, potatoes don't paddle.)
Right. Right. But the thing is, for purposes of my garden log, a plant is deemed "sprouted" when it breaks the surface of the soil. Thus as of yesterday, I can proclaim my potato officially sprouted. Bansai!
You know what's amazing? In order to get from where I buried it to the surface in four days, it would not only have to grow at least 60 times faster than thitherto, but also change directions, because two of the sprouts were not previously growing upwards. Now the change in the growth rate could arguably be attributed to being in soil, with water and nutrients, but that doesn't explain how it knew which way to grow. Potatoes have no inner ear and no brain. How can they have better proprioception than me?
Ok, if you knew me, that's probably a dumb question. I'm pathetically challenged when it comes to proprioception. It's still pretty sad being outdone by a potato. And again, there is this creepy increasing awareness that plants, through some unfathomable mechanism, have a certain degree of consciousness. I used to think I was playing God with them. Then I thought, plants are like drugs: you think you control them, but they control you. Now I'm starting to suspect they might have volition. And with volition, sooner or later, come sinister motives.
Anyway.
You know what else sprouted? My giant pumpkin. I planted the first seed on 11 February. It failed. I planted a second seed on 4 March. It was starting to get white mold on it, so on Friday I tried to dig it out, but it resisted, suggesting that it had a root. So I watched it closely through the day, and I could have sworn it was rising gradually out of the ground. Sure enough, Saturday morning the whole seed was above the ground, then it started to split, and then the baby leaves started to emerge. As of today, it's about four inches tall and trying to shed its shell. That gives it 189 days until last frost. If it can't bear fruit in 189 days, it should be extinct.
Right. Right. But the thing is, for purposes of my garden log, a plant is deemed "sprouted" when it breaks the surface of the soil. Thus as of yesterday, I can proclaim my potato officially sprouted. Bansai!
You know what's amazing? In order to get from where I buried it to the surface in four days, it would not only have to grow at least 60 times faster than thitherto, but also change directions, because two of the sprouts were not previously growing upwards. Now the change in the growth rate could arguably be attributed to being in soil, with water and nutrients, but that doesn't explain how it knew which way to grow. Potatoes have no inner ear and no brain. How can they have better proprioception than me?
Ok, if you knew me, that's probably a dumb question. I'm pathetically challenged when it comes to proprioception. It's still pretty sad being outdone by a potato. And again, there is this creepy increasing awareness that plants, through some unfathomable mechanism, have a certain degree of consciousness. I used to think I was playing God with them. Then I thought, plants are like drugs: you think you control them, but they control you. Now I'm starting to suspect they might have volition. And with volition, sooner or later, come sinister motives.
Anyway.
You know what else sprouted? My giant pumpkin. I planted the first seed on 11 February. It failed. I planted a second seed on 4 March. It was starting to get white mold on it, so on Friday I tried to dig it out, but it resisted, suggesting that it had a root. So I watched it closely through the day, and I could have sworn it was rising gradually out of the ground. Sure enough, Saturday morning the whole seed was above the ground, then it started to split, and then the baby leaves started to emerge. As of today, it's about four inches tall and trying to shed its shell. That gives it 189 days until last frost. If it can't bear fruit in 189 days, it should be extinct.
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