“The jackapples were long and red and oddly pointed at one end. One or two had been cut open as Joe dug them up, showing flesh which looked tropically pink in the sun. The boy staggered a little under the weight of the box.
"Watch your step," called Joe. "Don't drop 'em. They'll bruise."
"But these are just potatoes."
"Aye," said Joe, without taking his eyes from the vegetable cutter.
"I thought you said they were apples, or something."
"Jacks. Spuds. Taters. Jackapples. Poms de Tair."
"Don't look like much to me," said Jay.
Joe shook his head and began to feed the roots into the vegetable cutter. Their scent was sweetish, like papaya.
"I brought seeds for these home from South America after the war," he said. "Grew 'em right here in my back garden. Took me five years just to get the soil right. If you want roasters, you grow King Edwards. If you want salads, it's your Charlottes or your Jerseys. If it's chippers you're after, then it's your Maris Piper. But these..." He reached down to pick one up, rubbing the blackened ball of his thumb lovingly across the pinkish skin. "Older than New York, so old it doesn't even have an English name. Seed more precious than powdered gold. These aren't just potatoes, lad." He shook his head again, his eyes brimful of laughter under the thick gray brows. "These are me Specials."
Jay watched him cautiously. "So what are you making?" he asked at last.
Joe tossed the last jackapple into the cutter and grinned. "Wine, lad. Wine.”