Penny Piccolo, having recently moved to Pocatello, set out one day to buy a portobello. She’d been on vacation to Seattle in May and enjoyed a portobello for her lunch one day. So, downtown she went to the “heart of Pocatello” in pursuit of a tasty, homegrown Portobello. She stopped at “Bud’s Spuds and Vegetable Stand” which boasted that his potatoes were especially grand.
“Pardon me, young fellow. I’d like to buy a portobello.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but we sell no portobello. It’s arid in Pocatello—not wet enough for portobello. Perhaps you’d buy a potato. Potato, not portobello, is the produce of Pocatello.”
“I beg your pardon, young fellow, but, I don’t want a potato—I want a portobello.”
“Perhaps you should go to Portland to buy a portobello. It’s wet in Portland—not arid like Pocatello—THERE you might find a portobello!”
A man in a grey suit stepped up to the stand, tipped his hat, and extended his hand.
“Let me introduce myself—I’m Brandon Trudow. As I see it, Ma’am, this fellow wants to sell you a potato. But, if you insist on buying a portobello, surely you could find it in Pocatello.”
The market vendor went into a spiel, explaining to her why her quest was unreal.
“Of course it’s not impossible to buy a portobello in Pocatello. You can buy one on the internet. You can buy one by mail order. (You can even grow your own.) You can buy them for a price at a market that’s quite nice. They’re imported, you know, from WETTER climates where they GROW. I’ve eaten them in Paris, Portland, and Poughkeepsie, Seattle, San Francisco, and New York City. But, at this very market in the ‘heart of Pocatello,’ we do not sell mushrooms like crimini or portobello. If you’d like to buy here—PLEASE, PLEASE, buy a POTATO!”
A young man in jeans with hair that was long had a few words of his own to pass on.
“Hey, man—the potatoes here are great—a famous agricultural product of our state. You know, ma’am, you should just chill out—I mean, go with the flow. Buy a nice potato—you’re in Idaho!”
Mr. Clarence Ware, Mrs. Piccolo’s neighbor, was also in the marketplace there.
“Penny, do you like a baked potato? You could eat it with a steak. When I’m relaxed and unwound, I eat them hashbrowned. I eat them at breakfast, at lunch, and at dinner. If you ask me, the potato’s a winner!”
“Well, I came to buy a portobello and that’s what I’ll buy. I’ll go to Lee Street to a marketplace there. SURELY, I’ll find a portobello SOMEWHERE.”
But, when she arrived to shop on Lee Street, she realized that they had only fish and red meat.
“I see, you have no mushroom, you have no potato. Please, sir, tell me where to go to buy a portobello.”
“Oh yes, Ma’am—I know just the place. Go down the street to the market at Grace. They sell onions, and carrots, peas, and squash—all kinds of vegetables and all are prewashed.”
She went to the market but found not a trace of crimini mushrooms or portobello at Grace.
Frustrated and tired, she sighed a big sigh. Her efforts exhausted her—she wanted to cry. Just at that moment she glanced down the hill and saw a large farm that stopped her eyes still. There was a sign by the roadside that boasted its crop—fresh mushrooms—a restaurant, and a specialty shop!
She was thirsty and hungry and took a break, went into the restaurant and ordered a steak. It came with a salad and a baked potato—“Our finest produce of Pocatello.”
Then she dared to ask if they sold them—“Do you have portobello?”
“Oh absolutely, we sell all kinds of mushrooms – especially portobello!
We grow them in special houses where conditions are right with just the right moisture and just the right light. That’s how we can grow them in our dry Pocatello. Or you wouldn’t be able to find portobello.”
Her meal was tasty—the best of it’s kind. The portobello was delicious—this farm was a find. But the POTATO was exquisite, a wonderful taste! The meal was fabulous, she left nothing to waste. She did buy some mushrooms to take home with her but was surprised that it was the potato she’d actually preferred. Oh, what a wonderful, delectable taste! She must buy a potato and do it with haste.
The clerk said, “I’m sorry, but we’ve served the last one; but, I could give you a reference, if your shopping is done. We buy them from a market ‘in the heart of Pocatello.’ There at the marketplace is a very nice fellow. His name is Bud and he has his own stand—he doesn’t sell mushrooms, but his potatoes are grand.”
Hmm, she thought, as she traced back her day. “I think I’ll shop for potatoes another day.”
