It has a brown handle with silver studs. She can take the skin off a whole potato without stopping. It looks easy. An old sheet of newspaper is laid out on the draining board; the peelings coil around each other like dark snakes. There’s a pan of salty water ready on the worktop. In the living room Dad watches horse racing on the telly. She hands me the knife. ‘It’s time you knew how to peel spuds.’ I hold the knife in one hand, the potato in the other. The potato feels gritty and rough. Bits of soil cling to my nails. I pierce the skin on the potato, but I can’t get the knife to budge. ‘You’ve gone too deep,’ Mum says. ‘Just lightly take off the top, or there’ll be nothing of any good left.’ I try again. This time, the bit that drops onto the paper looks more like Mum’s peelings, only shorter. ‘That’s it. Now.’ She points at a small black lump. ‘Make sure you cut all the eyes out, all the bad bits. See if you can peel the lot by the time I get back from Dolly’s.
