Avocados, Potatoes and the Super Bowl

The Super Bowl makes me think of avocados – listening to the play-by-play on the radio as we much guacamole on nachos.

The height of avocado season coincides perfectly with Super Bowl snacks, but I save a few for the days after, too.

I realize I am an avocado snob.

As much as I appreciate my local grocery store when it carries those fist-sized, Hass avocados, I crave the 2-pound, meaty Monroe avocados that turn to mush in a delivery truck.

I had no idea such tasty avocados even existed before my friend, Mary, and I took our daughters to Peru a few years ago.

The grocery stores in Lima display at least eight different varieties of avocados. It turns out that about 500 varieties are grown in tropical countries around the world, but only a few hold up to days on a boat and truck.

I can’t get those avocado displays out of my mind.

Peru is the second largest exporter of avocados, but its citizens savor the best varieties.

They have to save something special for themselves.

Lima residents don’t drink sumptuous, home-grown Peruvian coffee.

Instead, they served Folger’s Instant for breakfast.

The first morning we sat down to breakfast in Lima, my heart sank.

The rest of our group giggled. None of them ever drank coffee.

I seriously considered forcing my then 11-year-old daughter to chug my Folger’s – both for giggle revenge and to help her avoid a lifetime addiction.

Peruvians eat a lot of chicken and guinea pigs.

We saw guinea pigs on a stick at outdoor festivals and, once, on our plate, mouth gaping, eyes wide open, served on a bed of potatoes.

Their guinea pigs are bigger than the ones in U.S. pet stores.

I wonder if they feed potatoes to guinea pigs.

After a week in Lima, we flew over the Andes and toured the Sacred Valley. That’s where we found out that Peruvians grow 3900 varieties of potatoes.

I wonder if Peruvian school children have a competition to list all 3900 potato varieties, like our students compete to rattle off the endless digits of pi.

I only know three varieties: red, Yukon gold and Russet.

I know that red potatoes taste best, even raw.

One Sunday afternoon many years ago, I drove the six hours back to my house in Logan, Utah, after visiting at the ranch on the Utah-Nevada state line where I used to work.

The ranch owner had grown red potatoes that summer so before I left, he put a big bag of potatoes in my back seat.

I got hungry on the drive, yet knew all of the stores on my backroad route would be closed.

I reached back for a potato, singing along to the radio as I munched.

About four hours into my drive, I spotted a quaint burger joint with a flashing Open sign.

As I walked in, every stool swiveled.

Every eye stared.

I knew strangers might be unusual there, but I didn’t think I was that strange.

I ordered a burger to-go, keeping my eyes averted while I listened to the sizzle on the grill.

Then I set the to-go box on the passenger seat, shifted into reverse and looked into the rearview mirror.

Dark Utah soil that once fed beautiful red potatoes circled my mouth, Fu Manchu style.

So last week, as I stood in the produce section of IGA thinking about Super Bowl snacks, I looked again at the tiny Hass avocado in my hand, noted the lack of wide-eyed guinea pigs, glanced at three varieties of potatoes washed and ready to eat, and decided life is good.

But I still don’t like Fu Manchu goatees.