Here, here for digressions…when I look out the window at another rainy day and I consider how wet the garden is, and how the potatoes may be rotting, I think about potatoes rotting in the ground, and how we must dig them up soon or no potatoes for the winter, and then if the potatoes are rotten how can we read by the light of the vodka we will make and burn in spirit lamps as we read an undiluted One Hundred Years of Solitude?

It's impossible.