I have a worm bin so I can compost kitchen scraps over the winter. They’re supposed to eaten by worms and converted into vermicompost. Well, it seems a piece of potato refused to cooperate.
Now there’s a potato plant in my worm bin. I could say something about the resilience of life in difficult places, but this isn’t exactly a deep-sea vent or Antarctic ice. It’s a nice, warm, nutritious (if you’re a potato) bin of worm castings.
The plant seems to determined to convert the compost into potato. It would be a pity not to find a place outside where it could grow. I might even get a whole crop of potatoes. And then I could cut them up and cook them and eat them and–
Isn’t the cycle of life wonderful?
Tomorrow: back to writing
Writing Every Day 
I hope you realize there’s a story in there. The power of the potato, so ordinary in appearance, so dangerous when left alone in a compost heap…
Cue organ sting!
I hope you realize you must write it. Potatoes on the Moon, maybe?