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Apple of the Earth, Potato of my Eye

Why love is actually a baked potato.

By Whitney GuerreroPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 6 min read
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"If you had to describe "love" as a food, what would you choose?" She asked me.

"A fully loaded baked potato."

I hadn't anticipated being asked what the gastronomic embodiment of love was, but I answered without hesitation. I'm sure there was a glimmer in my eye when I described the specific baked potato in my mind: An Outback Steakhouse baked potato.

Although I truly believe every potato is a beautiful potato, these potatoes are truly special.

They receive a full body massage in butter and salt before being wrapped in foil and placed in the oven. There is a small cut in the middle of the potato that goes down at least an inch and a half, so that as soon as you're ready to stuff those fluffy guts, all you have to do is push the ends of the potato towards each other, and it erotically opens up for you. That potato is then hot and ready for you to push the cheese down to the bottom with your fingers, once again butter it, cream it, and bring it to completion with a sprinkle of bacon and chives.

Many a night, this very baked potato was my dinner. I would work late and know that, at least at the end of my shift at the restaurant, my favorite kitchen guy would slide me a foil wrapped present. I would load it myself and use a knife to cut into it like a steak, and eat every. single. bite.

The warmth in my belly that I felt, and the starchy comfort that hugged my body from the inside out was akin to only one other thing I've felt: love.

I've often thought that if a potato wasn't an inanimate object, and I wasn't its tyrant and predator, we might have a romantic relationship. But, since I've realized that a root doesn't really make for a fully rounded lover and companion, I've done my fair share of experimentation with humans.

There were some close calls, and some wild misinterpretations, but I never quite managed to get that baked potato feeling from a human. Some lovers gave me potato-like side effects such as weight gain, burns, near cardiac arrest, and bloating... I would even get the same starchy cravings for them and feel the same gratification of the first bite when they were inside me. They weren't the healthiest for me, and although they could sometimes provide the escapist comfort that my loving baked potato would, I never felt the same sweet surrender or wholeness with them.

You see, this potato that I lust after, it doesn't fade and doesn't fail. I love it, whether it knows it or not. Even so, in its vegetable state, it provides me comfort. I know it's always going to be there for me whether I'm down, or if I'm celebrating, or even if I'm just hungry. Maybe it doesn't provide me with every nutrient required to keep me healthy, but it keeps me fed, and it keeps me happy. It's able to meet my needs, as well as my desires.

I have always been a hopeless romantic, and as such, I've always had a healthy bit of optimism when it comes to love. The optimism though, comes paired with equal amounts of heartache—oftentimes, self inflicted. It's a dangerous game, projecting your idealistic views of love onto another.

I don't just crave love and satisfaction to be given to me. I want my love to be equally received and appreciated; a mutual symbiosis, equally pleasing and beneficial to both of us. I've always expected this symbiotic notion to be achievable with any romantic partner. This is where the heartache normally sets in.

I gave love to my partners in abundance, almost as an example for them to see what I wanted in return. When it didn't work and words failed me, I would stay in the relationship while already going through the grieving process of our inevitable end. I would give all I had right up until the moment I left, and then swiftly move on, optimistic about my next prospect. Without missing a beat, I would find the next love of my life and watch it slowly die on my favorite carousel ride.

The error in my ways, as I was told, was that I failed to ask for what I wanted. I've always taken issue with that. This idea makes sense to me for things like: asking for extra sauce on the side when you're at a restaurant, a raise at work, a piñata on a high shelf at Party City, or maybe when you're screaming for someone to bring you toilet paper from the bathroom. If you don't ask for these things, they don't magically appear. But, how do you ask for a better response after emptying your soul to someone? How do you ask for someone to simply... like you?

The normal wear and tear of a relationship isn't something that is foreign to me. You get tired of hearing each other's shit. You realize that those once charming quirks are now just irritating flaws. You have dry spells and arguments. But, if it's right, usually at the end of the day, your partner gives something to you that balances the scales of love and war. You can have all the bad shit on one end, and then on the other, there might be small compliments, or tiny favors. Maybe a look across the room, or slow dancing in the kitchen. Even just the simple fact that you know that everyone else in the world sucks, except for the two of you. You feel safe with your person, looked after and loved.

Safe. Comfortable.

My impulsive heart always allowed me to jump in head first and assume I could be these two things. By the time I had figured out I wasn't either safe or comfortable, I had already given so much of myself that I had nothing left for me. I had never taken the proper time to learn these people enough to know if they even wanted the Whitney dish I was force feeding them. They didn't even know what I was serving, but sat down for dinner anyway.

Guess what? I was serving a baked potato the whole fucking time. I was a baked potato all along. I AM A BAKED POTATO. And I can finger myself with cheese if I want to! I can hug myself with starchy satisfaction when I feel like it, and I can cream and butter my own fluffy insides. Maybe I'm not the healthiest but after trying this alone thing, I can make myself feel safe, too. I am comfortable in my potato skin.

I can do it alone if I have to, but I don't feel like it. Because, I did finally meet another baked potato. And even if one day they wind up being a yuca in potato garb, at least they're trying.

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About the Creator

Whitney Guerrero

Whitney is a second generation Mexican-American woman originally from Northern Virginia. Currently based in Cary, North Carolina, she is a dance teacher, avid crocheter, graphic designer, mommy to one, and writes when the spirit moves her.

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