I once worked with Pete Potanski in the potato fields of Pluto, Idaho. It was our job to “debug” nearly 80 acres of potatoes in the northern section of Pluto to ensure that potato bugs didn’t chew through the tender leaves of the potato plants.

Check or cash didn’t pay Pete and me. Reward for our hard work was sacks full of the finest potatoes Idaho had to offer. And if being paid with potatoes sounds like the Great Depression, in a sense it was. Me and Pete were greatly depressed. We both had lost our paying jobs at a local pickle factory in nearby Pottsfield when we were caught with our fingers in a pickle jar.

In addition to losing our jobs, the women we were dating dumped us for a couple of asparagus farmers from California; all the clothes we owned burned in the fire that erupted when we were shot at chasing the asparagus farmers from California; and Pete had hemorrhoids.

We were penniless and miserable.

The darkest hour in our pathetic lives occurred one Thursday night while siphoning gas from a pick-up truck full of potatoes in the parking lot of the Potato City Inn. Pete stood lookout as I crouched near the truck sucking the open end of a three-foot long piece of garden hose I had snaked into the farmer’s gas tank. I had just sucked the gas to the brink of the hose when Pete panicked.

“Someone’s coming!” he cried, slapping me on the back, my mouth quickly filling with gasoline. It was the farmer who owned the truck. Spitting gas left and right, I quickly pulled the hose from the tank and stuffed one end down the back of my pants to help hide it, slapped the cover back on the tank, and slid the gas can behind the left rear wheel of the truck. I quickly stood trying to whistle nonchalantly but the gasoline burned my mouth so bad I couldn’t pucker. So, I started picking my nose.

“What are you fellas doin’ by my truck?” the old farmer asked, as he approached us puffing a fat cigar. I kicked Pete in the shin.

“Oh, uh, we had to stop and pick our nose,” Pete answered, shoving a finger up his left nostril.

Me and Pete stood looking stupid with our fingers in our nose. “You boys are actin’ awful peculiar,” the farmer remarked. “What’s that gasoline I smell,” he said, poking me in the chest with his walking cane. “You boys stealin’ my gas? Get yer finger outta yer nose and answer me boy!” he demanded, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke in my face: that triggered a chain of events that forever changed the meaning of fried potatoes.

I first gagged on the smoke, and then sneezed. When I did, what gasoline was left in my mouth sprayed the farmer’s cigar. A huge fire-flash caused the farmer to scream like a little girl and drop his burning embers into the tiny puddles of gasoline that had pooled around my feet. That fire-flash caused me to scream like a bigger girl and I turned to run, the hose in my pants following me like a rubber tail. In my angst, I broke wind. I didn’t mean to…it just happened. That gas blew through the hose and into the burning gas on the ground. The burning gas on the ground found new fuel and followed it back to its origin and the seat of my pants lit up like a Roman candle. I screamed again. Pete started kicking me in ass to try and extinguish the flames, and the farmer was beating Pete with his cane. We were halfway across the parking lot when the tiny fire by the truck ignited the gas can behind the left rear wheel of the vehicle. It was only a matter of moments before the truck exploded. We three stood stunned as chunks of charred potato pieces rained down.

Following our time in jail, me and Pete moved to south Texas and found work on a crab boat. It was there I found the inspiration for this recipe. And, no, it’s not a baked potato.

Custom Crab Cakes

1 pound (2, 8 oz. pkgs) imitation crab meat (lump type)

2 tablespoons of mayonnaise

2 eggs

20 saltine crackers (crushed)

1/2 small onion (chopped)

1/2 small green pepper (chopped)

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning (optional)

1/3 cup olive oil

Worchester sauce

In a large mixing bowl, add crab meat, mayo, onion, green pepper, and Cajun seasoning and mix well. In a small bowl, lightly beat both eggs and add to crab meat. Add lemon juice and three shakes out of your Worchester sauce bottle. Mix all together until thoroughly blended. Now you’ll need a couple of dinner plates and a whole lot of patience. Here’s the tricky part. Very carefully form the crab mixture into medium-sized patties. Let me warn you, this won’t be real easy. However, once you get one formed, gently slide it off your hand and onto one of the plates. Repeat this process until all of the mixture is used. Before you attempt to fry your cakes, stick them in the freezer for about 20 minutes or the ‘fridge for 30-40 minutes. The cold will help them hold together better.

When ready, heat your olive oil in a large frying pan and carefully slide as many cakes in the pan as will fit. Fry till golden brown on one side, flip, and do the same on the other side. These are pretty darn good!