Olga’s Potato

It was deer season again and I knew this from the taste of shit in my mouth. “They are Raisinettes,” he said.  “Are you sure uncle Chris?” I asked. It must have been a funny sight for two 30 year olds to see a confused child eat deer shit, thinking that someone spilled movie candies in the Catskill mountains of New York.

As a kid, I was taken upstate NY when my father and uncle Chris went hunting. During those early years, I learned lessons that were not only misleading, but most likely damaging to my overall development. For instance, I was told never to travel alone in the forest because Lester, an old black man with three wienies, was waiting for little children. Luckily we were in a group when I heard out about Lester… and leading that group was good ol’ Art. 

Art was the world’s oldest hick who lived near our hunting lodge. He knew the woods well and according to uncle Chris, Art had been alive since the Civil War along his wife, Olga. I had yet to meet Olga, but on our way back from hunting, we stopped by Art’s home for some homemade lemonade.

Art’s house was a time machine; something built at the turn of the 20th century… and so was Olga.  Imagine an older Barbara Bush with thicker ankles. “Go give Olga a kiss,” my uncle Chris whispered. To a 6 year old, Olga was a monster. “I don’t want to,” I protested as I held onto my father’s leg. “It’s not an option,” said my dad as he shook me off. 

Walking towards the First Lady, I began to smell something unique.  The closer I came to Olga, the stronger the scent. As she reached down and kissed my cheek, I tried to focus on the lemonade I was about to get, but was so obsessed with this unique scent that I immediately asked what it was aloud. Luckily Olga and Art were deaf, but I was shushed nonetheless.

“What was that smell?” I asked again once we left. “That Ryan,” uncle Chris said, “Was Olga’s potato.” “Like a potato you eat?” I asked. “Well, sometimes, but this kind of potato grows between a woman’s legs.” At 6, you’ve got no clue what’s going on between a woman’s legs.  Insert a mature role-model in this situation and you set a child on a straight path to a realistic, sexual discovery.  In my case, insert Uncle Chris and that same child has nightmares of old women with sexual organs resembling garden vegetables. 

That night, I dreamt about a woman buttering a baked potato that was growing between her legs, but it wasn’t until 19 years later that it made sense.  It was Thanksgiving dinner.  I cut my potato, pushed the insides up a bit and before buttering it, I turned it vertically and smiled as I realized my uncle Chris is a visual genius.