Peeling Potatoes for Jesus—Or Not


A few months after deciding that Potato Peeling was not a career choice.

Photo: Me in 1966.

As you might have discovered through my blog posts, my life has, and remains, long on the bizarre and short on the ordinary. Some time ago, as I was munching on one of my favorite lunch delights, pastrami with extra pickles, French fries, and iced tea, my best bud, David, suggested that I blog about my short career as a solanum tuberosum extract specialist (potato peeler).

I was first married at the ripe old age of eighteen (1966), right out of high school. Not having a clue about life, I believed that the Ricky Nelson family and the Cleavers of Beaver fame were the norm—only my family was distorted and dysfunctional. HAH! So there we were, Anita and Rick—two married and clueless children—starting out on a disastrous journey that EVERYBODY but us could see was, as my grandmother used to say, “A fast trip to Hell in a handbasket.”

So, I moved in with clueless, but pretty, Rick (he looked like the late actor Patrick Swayze) in his Van Nuys, California rented house. It came complete with a neurotic cat. This cat liked to trap mice and eat them on the bed while we were sleeping. But that’s another tale for a future story.

Shortly after our wedding, and with appropriate comedic mishaps, we decided to move to Vallejo, California and live with Rick’s mother, stepfather, brother, and sister—or as I called them, “the Bonzo family.”

It took us only one day (we were poor and furnitureless) to pile everything we owned into a trailer, hitched it to our 1962 Ford, and leave smoggy Van Nuys. Yep, we were on our way to a new life in beautiful Northern California. We drove about five miles before the engine seized and the car died. It seems that whoever changed the oil for us didn’t tighten the bolt thingy that holds the oil in. It drained out and murdered the car.

On to U-Haul for “America’s Moving Adventure” or so it said on the back of the truck. Getting lost only twice, and almost running out of gas as we drove through the endless sea of farmland on Interstate 5, we finally arrived at my in-law’s sparkling new tract home in the original capital of California—Vallejo.

There I was, bright-eyed and shiny cheeked, not knowing what to do with my life other than play wife. I was clueless, living at my in-law’s, with a high school drop-out husband, who was, shall I say, emotionally and intellectually equal to a bull moose. Double Leo, with strong Scorpio tendencies. If you don’t know what that means, trust me; it is in the realm of extremely un-good.

WHAT WAS I THINKING???? That’s the problem, I wasn’t.

After about a month, my mother-in-law, Evelyn, decided that it was time for me to get a job. She waitressed at the Home Baked Pie Restaurant. I had never worked before, so I looked in the local paper and applied for a few clerical jobs.

My young age and lack of experience was a no-go from the start, so Evelyn took it upon herself to get me a job. One day, she announced, in her best militant, southern drawl, “I  don’ want no slackers in MAH house. I got you a good, decent job at the CHP.”

I was to report to the Gulf Coast CHP potato processing plant at 8 a.m. the next morning. Okay, what was I to do? At eighteen, I wasn’t the older and wiser curmudgeon I am now. I thought I’d better go.

I reported, filled out paperwork, was handed a rubber apron, a hefty potato peeler, and a pair of industrial rubber gloves. The office manager, a woman with brassy, blond hair, heavy make-up, skin-hugging jeans, and a tight blouse that showed off her prized possessions, ushered me into a cavernous building. I looked around, wide-eyed and stunned. It was piled with mountains of potatoes being shoveled by a determined-looking man into the automatic peeler. Surreal.

The potatoes were surface-peeled by a machine, then guided onto a conveyor belt that formed a river of partially peeled spuds.

There I was, all 98 pounds and 5’4” standing at a GINORMOUS table with three beefy women who looked like they spent their nights chugalugging cheap beer and filling their jaws with chewing tobacco.

Musty-smelling dust filled the already stale air of the cavernous factory. I had a bad feeling about this job. A CLANG and nerve-grating buzzer sounded. The platform I stood on shook beneath my rubber-boot clad feet. A near deafening roar brought a tsunami of partially peeled potatoes rushing down the chute toward us.

We grabbed them and gouged out their eyes. We hacked at black, rotten spots, mold, insect damage, and anything else we didn’t like, then tossed them onto a downhill slide that chopped them into French fries.

The thick, pungent, and sticky smell coated the inside of my nostrils. A thick layer of slime covered the floor. The pockety, rackety, grindy noise of the machines crept into my head until I thought my brain would melt. One of the women shout-sang over the din of rumble, creak, clang, and bang, “Doin’ the work for Jesus. Making spuds for the Lo-orrd!”

Zillions of naked potatoes, like brown, spotted monsters raced toward us faster and faster. Visions of Lucille Ball at the candy factory loomed in my mind as I watched the three she-buffalos whittling away like beavers in a tree-felling contest. Stuff flew everywhere! Up my nose, in my face and hair, and down my shirt. The floor was slick with potato rot. AAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!!

After a day that seemed like a century, I dragged myself home in a trance-like stupor, smelling of rotten potatoes and so tired it felt like my eyes were about to bleed.

I said nothing to anyone at home and headed straight for the bathroom. After hurling chunks of puke into the toilet, I filled the bathtub with hot, steamy water, and poured in a whole box of lavender-scented bubble stuff. I scrubbed and soaked for an hour. Did that remove the stink of potatoes? NO! I still smelled like the bottom of a garbage heap.

The next morning, I dreaded getting up. It was time to confront mother-in-law. I dressed and found her hunched over her morning cup of Yuban. “Evelyn, I’m not cut out to be a potato peeler. I can do better than being chained to a job from the depths of Hell. I’m not going back!”

She proceeded to give me a loud lecture about being too snooty for my ‘britches.” I didn’t care. That was a valuable lesson in the importance of education. I needed a college degree! Although my education was sporadic due to an unconventional but more-fun-than-anyone-dares-to-hope-for life, I eventually went back to school with the goal of earning a degree. In the meantime, I took jobs in a fabric store and in a Woolworth’s. I worked as a waitress and sold Avon. I made custom-designed children’s clothing, and worked as a nanny. I would do anything but a factory job.

Jesus can peel his own damned potatoes.

Leave a comment. I love comments.




About anitaburns

Confetti Head: My life of change, and color, weirdness, and fun. From the colorful days of Hippie, to all night rocker parties, to married life, contemplation, meditation, and more. My life has been blessedly full and rich. Anita's Real Food: I have loved cooking since my first Easy Bake Oven when I was four. I bake, cook, invent, share, and eat. Enjoy my Real Food Blog. Astrology Learning and Secrets: LIttle-known facets or a deeper dive into the wonderful world of Astrology
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10 Responses to Peeling Potatoes for Jesus—Or Not

  1. Anna says:

    Wonderful read! We sure can learn some things in life. Thank you for sharing!


  2. Paveena says:

    YOu look so pretty in that picture with your long hair. I never seen you with long hair before.
    I love shoes, but hated working in the shoe store (ROP class in high school) so I drop out of ROP class and swear to myself never to do that again. LOL


    • anitaburns says:

      HI Paveena. Never worked in a shoe store. I’d probably spend all my earnings if I did. I worked other retail though. NOT FUN. I’ll bet you’re having more fun where you are now and you are good at your job. That I know.



  3. Pam Nollkamper says:

    Hi anita – I enjoyed your story. It reminded me of my brief, but very illustrious career as a chicken bone picker. I was in high school and applied for a waitress job at this restaurant. I was so happy when the owner told me that I got the job and to report for work in the morning. When I came in to work, he put me in the walk-in refrigerator to pick chicken off of neck bones for chicken salad. Not what I had in mind. I was there for hours – freezing to death with chicken scraps all over me. At least you got a rubber apron! A week later, I wanted to go to the river with my girlfriends and my boss wouldn’t let me off work. Guess which activity won out! No more chicken bone pickin’ for me!



  4. anitaburns says:

    LOL LOL LOL Chicken Bone Picker. That takes the prize!!! Thanks for that. I needed a good belly laugh today.



  5. Abel Antell says:

    Wow! what an idea! What a concept! Beautiful .. Awesome …


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