Dear Farm Journal,

Now that I have tasted our potato crop, well, at least one variety, I have made it my mission to protect them from potato bugs. I walked out to the smaller plot with some gloves and a bucket of soapy water and went to work. Some of the plants are speckled with the plump orange baby bugs, poised to pop into a foul liquid with minimum pressure. In my opinion, these are much worse to pick than the adults. For one, there are a legion of them. For two, they look like miniature swollen brains. For three, again, they practically burst if you just look at them wrong. Needless to say, I’m a bit squeamish about this task, but it has to be done. I finish the small patch without losing my lunch, and walk to the long patch along the driveway, a bit fearful of what I will find. Oh shit! I stand at the edge of the field and it’s clear I have come too late for some of the plants. The leaves are eaten down to the stem on one side of the row for as far as I can see. I’m going to need back up. This is what happens when you don’t stay right on top of everything. Something always slips away. Damn it. 



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