“People all over the world are craving potatoes,” she whispered to me across the table, between bites of barramundi. Her husband was in the middle of a story, and she didn’t want to interrupt him. It wasn’t a story exactly, more of a description of his frozen food storage company.
“Guess what makes up more than fifty percent of our business?” the Belgian man had asked me. I didn’t have a guess.
“French fries!” he revealed, before sipping his Pinot Grigio and smoothing back his hair. He looked like he would be comfortable wearing an ascot.
This is when his wife confided in me about the worldwide potato craze.
“The Japanese, especially,” the Belgian man added. “The Japanese cannot get enough french fries. They are starting to eat them instead of rice.”
I pictured a sushi chef serving raw salmon atop beds of Stouffer’s french fries. I glanced at my husband who smiled at me as he brushed a fly off his glass. This is all you, he seemed to be saying.
We were dining in a lodge in Arnhem Land, a remote area in Australia’s Northern Territory. We had traveled here to hike, fish, swim in fresh water, and view Aboriginal cave art, some of which was more than 20,000 years old. Earlier that day, we had climbed up and over rocks to see delicate drawings of stick figures that were created at a time when you could walk from Australia to New Guinea. My mind was full of majestic and mysterious things.
“All Asians actually,” the Belgian man said. “Asians are really getting into potatoes.”
I decided to change the topic. “Have you ever been somewhere this remote?”
He had. Kyrgyzstan. For a “boys trip.” Hunting Marco Polo sheep.
He spoke about stalking these spiral horned animals for days before identifying the oldest male for the kill. He slept in the mountains in a tent with his friends. “The kill is a small part of our time together.” He explained how big game hunting assists in the conservation efforts of protected animals, and that the sheep’s wool is used to make pashminas and the meat is eaten by the locals. I asked if he had photos of himself squatting beside dead animals, and he said yes. I asked if he kept mementos from his kills and he said yes. I thought of Gaston in Beauty and the Beast singing, I use antlers in all of my decorating.
That morning, I had watched a St. Andrew’s Cross spider weave her decorative web on the edge of a rock, peacefully preparing for her meal.
“Do you ever feel bad? Shooting animals?” My question was childlike but I was curious.
“Of course. The day I stop feeling anything is the day I stop hunting.”
