It came in the co-op box. The heart-shaped potato was so perfectly formed; I couldn’t resist snapping a photo. Was it a sign? A message from the Almighty? What did it mean? I tossed it in the bin with the onions. A few days later, I made soup.

“Mom! You can’t cut that.” Coco watched as the chef’s knife hovered over the spud.

“Of course I can.”

“But it’s special.”

“It’s food. Ever smell a rotten potato? Use it or lose it.” I cleft the tuber with the blade.

We ate that heart like nomadic tribesmen, chewing courage from the experience.