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“I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet.
"You’re like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield."
She froze in place. Then she spun on me, her face lit by a half-grown fruit. “A potato,� she said flatly. “That’s the best you can do? Seriously?�
“It makes sense,� I said. “Listen. You’re strolling through a minefield, worried about getting blown up. And then you step on something, and you think, ‘I’m dead.� But it’s just a potato. And you’re so relieved to find something so wonderful when you expected something so awful. That’s what you are. To me.�
“A potato.�
“Sure. French fries? Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like potatoes?�
“Plenty of people. Why can’t I be something sweet, like a cake?�
“Because cake wouldn’t grow in a minefield. Obviously.�
She stared down the hallway at me for a few moments, then sat on an overgrown set of roots.
Sparks. She seemed to be crying. Idiot! I thought at myself, scrambling through the foliage. Romantic. You were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren’t romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.”
― Brandon Sanderson, Firefight

“So what is the best vegetable? Well, we all know that: it's the potato. The vegetable you can't screw up. You can throw a potato into a bonfire, run away from it - and, an hour later, it's turned into a meal. Try doing that with broccoli, or a trifle, and it will laugh in your face.”
― Caitlin Moran, Moranthology

“True the greater part of the Irish people was close to starvation. The numbers of weakened people dying from disease were rising. So few potatoes had been planted that, even if they escaped bight, they would not be enough to feed the poor folk who relied upon them. More and more of those small tenants and cottagers, besides, were being forced off the land and into a condition of helpless destitution. Ireland, that is to say, was a country utterly prostrated.
Yet the Famine came to an end. And how was this wonderful thing accomplished? Why, in the simplest way imaginable. The famine was legislated out of existence. It had to be. The Whigs were facing a General Election.”
― Edward Rutherfurd, The Rebels of Ireland

“Peter lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.”
― Beatrix Potter

“DO NOT PUT ALL YOUR TRUST IN ROOT VEGETABLES. WHAT THINGS SEEM TO BE MAY NOT BE WHAT THEY ARE.
-Death”
― Terry Pratchett, The Truth: Stage Adaptation

“Not everyone can be a truffle. Most of us are potatoes. And a potato is a very good thing to be.”
― Massimo Bottura, Never Trust A Skinny Italian Chef

“For the increase in the number of my Brennan cousins," Conall remarked dryly, "we must thank the potato.”
― Edward Rutherfurd, The Rebels of Ireland

“He looked at them and saw their faces did not fit. The skin on the skulls crawled and twitched like half-solid paste. All the heads in his angle of vision seemed irregular lumps, like potatoes but without a potato’s repose: potatoes with crawling surfaces punctured by holes which opened and shut, holes blocked with coloured jelly or fringed with bone stumps, elastic holes through which air was sucked or squirted, holes secreting salt, wax, spittle and snot. He grasped a pencil in his trouser pocket, wishing it were a knife he could thrust through his cheek and use to carve his face down to the clean bone. But that was foolish. Nothing clean lay under the face. He thought of sectioned brains, palettes, eyeballs and ears seen in medical diagrams and butcher’s shops. He thought of elastic muscle, pulsing tubes, gland sacks full of lukewarm fluid, the layers of cellular and fibrous and granular tissues inside a head. What was felt as tastes, caresses, dreams and thoughts could be seen as a cleverly articulated mass of garbage.”
― Alasdair Gray, Lanark

“Often I Wish I Were
a potato.

Eyes opened
in all directions.

Unafraid
of the cold earth.

The difference
between life and death

for somebody.”
― Katerina Stoykova-Klemer, The Air Around the Butterfly / Въздухът около пеперудата

“If bliss are a type of potato, then ignorance can be french-fried”
― josh stern , And That’s Why I’m Single

“She made a creche outside the Inn. The natives thought it was wonderful, and Sister Honey was gratified by their numbers.
Why have the devils with wings come to mock at the poor baby?' asked the children, pointing to the angels.
The baby is the Number One Lord Jesus Christ,' Ayah told them.
But he hasn't any clothes on! Aren't they going to give Him anything? Not a little red robe? Not a bit of melted butter?'
This is His Mother,' said Ayah, showing them the little porcelain Virgin in blue and white and pink. 'He is her child.'
That isn't true,' said the women, measuring the baby with their eyes. 'He's too big to be possible. Probably He's a dragon, an evil spirit in the shape of a child, and presently He'll eat up the woman.”
― Rumer Godden

“Tämä olen oppinut suomalaisista: heille kaunein kukka on peruna.”
― Jukka Viikilä, Akvarelleja Engelin kaupungista

“Minor offenses at best. Nothing to deserve death by potato.”
― Emily A. Duncan, Wicked Saints

“Irish people marry late, as a rule. We have that potato-famine DNA from the old country, that mentality where you don't give birth to anything until you have the potatoes all stored up to feed it. My ancestors were all shepherds who got married in their thirties and then stayed together for life, who had long and happy marriages, no doubt because they were already deaf. My grandparents courted for nine years before they married in 1933.”
― Rob Sheffield, Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time

“You're such a tiny little guy, though. Very petite, like a potato.”
― Cora Ridon Caballes

“Once the leeks and potatoes have simmered for an hour or so, you mash them up with a fork or a food mill or a potato ricer. All three of these options are far more of a pain in the neck than the Cuisinart- one of which space-munching behemoths we scored when we got married- but Julia Child allows as how a Cuisinart will turn soup into "something un-French and monotonous." Any suggestion that uses the construction "un-french" is up for debate, but if you make Potage Parmentier, you will see her point. If you use the ricer, the soup will have bits- green bits and white bits and yellow bits- instead of being utterly smooth. After you've mushed it up, just stir in a couple of hefty chunks of butter, and you're done. JC says sprinkle with parsley but you don't have to. It looks pretty enough as it is, and it smells glorious, which is funny when you think about it. There's not a thing in it but leeks, potatoes, butter, water, pepper, and salt.”
― Julie Powell, Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously

“There was a smell like a cut potato from all the land, raw and cold and white from having the moon on it most of the night.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“The eyes of a potato never close to go to sleep.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“On his good days, he tried to teach me everything he knew."

"What about his bad days?"

"On his bad days, he generally thought he was an onion."

"That's awful."

"No, it's not. What was awful was when he thought he was a potato masher."

"Oh.”
― Sage Blackwood, Jinx's Magic

“Roughly the shape of a potato.”
― James S.A. Corey, Leviathan Wakes

“Rachel nods slowly. “So what’s with the kidnapping jokes, then?â€�

“W³ó²¹³Ù?â€�

“I heard, like, five, just over dinner. One girl, that one in the stripy socks and the cat ear hoodie, said to her friend, and I quote—� Rachel stares upwards, the way she does when she’s remembering something exactly, “—’No, you can’t have my baked potato, I earned that potato, I was a good girl for that potato, I spent a whole year in an underground prison for that potato, I was kidnapped off the streets of Basingstoke for that potato, I was castrated for that potato, get your own, slut.’�

Melissa closes her eyes and groans.

“How do you do that?� Shahida asks.

“You know what I do for a living,â€� Rachel says. “I had to learn how to remember stuff. Anyway, then another girl at the table held up her potato, said, ‘Castrato,â€� and laughed so hard she nearly choked on her dinner.”
― Alyson Greaves, Secrets of Dorley Hall