Peeling Potatoes 31: Resolutions, Rocky Paths, and a Potato Called John

Episode 31 of Peeling Potatoes opens the way this podcast often does: with the delicious illusion that Fruitloop and the Mayor haven’t spoken since “last time,” when in reality they’ve basically been in each other’s pockets all through Christmas, New Year, and the in-between bits. The greeting is ceremonial, the friendship is real, and the audience is invited to sit quietly at the kitchen table while the two of them pretend they’re strangers for the first thirty seconds.

And then—like always—the pretending collapses beautifully.

This is the first episode of 2026, but it doesn’t arrive wearing fireworks and glitter. It arrives wearing weather, work pressure, a cough that refuses to die in 2025, and the kind of honest mental fog that makes you say: “Humour isn’t coming naturally at the moment.” (The Mayor says it. Fruitloop clocks it. The listeners feel it.)

Still, they do what they do best: they talk their way through the fog until it becomes a story.

The New Year greeting that isn’t really a greeting

The Mayor admits the “Happy New Year” is part of the fabric of the show—like a costume they put on briefly before getting back to the real stuff: Brida, life, stress, resilience, and the strange habit they both have of turning daily chaos into meaning.

Fruitloop kicks off with a left-field doorway: Dr. Seuss, the Grinch, the Lorax—homework for the Mayor, because of course it is. In Peeling Potatoes-land, reading a children’s story isn’t leisure; it’s research for the soul.

Then the Mayor brings the temperature report from Europe: winter, no snow, disappointment, and the promise of pictures only if they’re good pictures. (A boundary. A standard. A man with principles.)

And then Fruitloop says the thing that launches the episode:

“I want you to tell me about your New Year’s resolutions.”

Not “tell the audience.” Not “tell the listeners.” Just: tell me. That’s the show’s secret. The microphone is on, but the conversation is still primarily between two people who actually care what the other one is carrying.

The Mayor’s resolution: a better state of mind (and a mountain of moving parts)

The Mayor’s first resolution isn’t a clean, cute slogan like “drink more water” or “go to the gym.” It’s bigger and messier:

He wants a better state of mind—calmer, more in control, less “deep in the cheerio camp” (his phrase, delivered like an apology and a warning).

And this isn’t just emotional fluff. He links it directly to what’s happening inside Brida: something that started as a “little idea” and has become a “huge project” running in parallel with everything else in his life. Work and personal life aren’t separate lanes for him—they’re one road, full of traffic, and he’s trying not to crash.

He’s also honest about the weird social side-effects of being in that state: how your circle goes quiet, how you wonder whether people sense you’re on another planet, how you question whether you’re becoming “the complete negative horrible person” (he stops himself before saying the word he’s thinking—because even when he’s spiralling, he’s still performing for the sake of the kitchen-table vibe).

Fruitloop listens the way Fruitloop listens: steady, minimal, present. The “yes” is doing work.

And then, because life loves to undercut seriousness, the Mayor tells us he treated himself to an espresso and cheesecake—sent Fruitloop a WhatsApp—and received… silence.

Fruitloop replies with the world’s most relatable excuse: she was cooking dinner.

The Mayor, naturally, turns this into a policy discussion. Fruitloop, naturally, jokes that she replies within five to seven working days.

And yes—this is recorded, so now it’s official.

Fruitloop’s resolution: a 10km run, plus the tyranny of schedules

Fruitloop’s main resolution is concrete: run a 10km race—not to win, just to finish. There’s a local competition around April (she thinks it might be the 13th, but she’s not fully sure), which gives her three months to train once her son’s school routine returns and mornings become predictable again.

Then she reveals the real resolution behind the resolution: structure.

Without a schedule, she becomes “all over the place,” especially working from home where dishes, laundry, and household tasks creep into the workday like polite little thieves.

And this is where Peeling Potatoes becomes quietly universal: the marriage logistics, the chore negotiations, the diplomacy of thanking someone for helping while privately wanting to redo the entire job because they washed the floor before the counters. The Mayor agrees with her logic (top to bottom, because gravity exists), but also understands the “just do the task you were asked” approach.

They don’t solve it. They just name it. That’s the therapy: two adults admitting the instruction manual never arrived.

The “end of year” vision: bush dreams and a terrifying May milestone

Fruitloop shares where she wants to be by December: somewhere quiet and natural—possibly the Drakensberg—away from crowds. Not anti-people, just pro-breathing-space. The Kruger is too busy in December; beaches are flooded; the world becomes loud. She wants quiet.

And then the Mayor drops his own resolution like a brick wrapped in champagne foil:

May. South Africa. The bush. Two bottles of proper champagne.

Because yes—despite working together closely, the Mayor and Fruitloop have never met in person. Not once. Not one shared square meter of earth.

So this goal carries weight. Not just travel logistics, but everything that has to happen inside the year for that meeting to feel earned. The Mayor says the trip itself isn’t scary—it’s what has to happen to make it possible.

It becomes a kind of shared landmark: if they can sit in the bush in May and look back, then the rocky paths become the story, not the wound.

When the episode turns “cheerio”… and then the potato arrives

Just as the conversation threatens to get a little too noble, the Mayor tries to make Fruitloop laugh.

He presents something “very valuable” and “foundational” to everything they’ve been building since March 2025:

A potato.

Not a metaphorical potato. An actual potato. In his office.

Fruitloop handles this with the correct level of concern: “What is a potato doing in your office?”

The Mayor says it’s inspiring him.

Fruitloop names it John (because she calls her husband John as a running joke). Suddenly, they’re greeting a potato like a third co-host. It’s ridiculous. It’s exactly the point.

Then they do what they always do: they take the absurd and make it oddly profound.

They build John’s backstory: thrown into the dirt, growing in darkness, yanked into the light, washed once, sold off in a sack, destined to become comfort food. The Mayor asks if peeling John is removing his clothing or his identity. Fruitloop replies that the identity changes with the peeling—because it becomes something else: soup, fries, warmth, fuzzy comfort.

It becomes a quiet little philosophy lesson disguised as nonsense.

And because the podcast has its own private language now, the Mayor admits he can’t look at potatoes (or pineapples) the same way anymore. Fruitloop agrees. The listeners—who have learned to speak this dialect—understand exactly what that means.

They even share “burned potato” stories: charcoal potatoes from childhood, and a potato sacrificed in hot oil on New Year’s Eve as some kind of folk cleansing ritual. It’s absurd, domestic, and weirdly tender—like the whole show.

Fruitloop gives John his dream: to be a Simba Chippy (a distinctly South African potato destiny). The Mayor apologizes to John for ending up in France where he’ll likely become leek soup instead of a crisp packet hero.

John, we assume, forgives them.

The sideways questions that make the episode feel like Fruitloop

Toward the end, Fruitloop pulls out her signature curveball prompts—the ones that sound like jokes but always reveal something:

• What’s the worst resolution you could make?
• If you made resolutions for your cats, would they follow them?
• If your resolution was based on the last thing you bought on Amazon, what would your year look like?
• Would you rather shout your resolution before entering a room, or tattoo it on your forehead?

The Mayor answers like the Mayor: storytelling, self-deprecation, sincere honesty, and a slightly theatrical spiral into meaning. We get Cuban cigar dilemmas, cat diets sabotaged by grandmother-style treat-giving, and the symbolic importance of “the last thing bought on Amazon” being A6 cards that represent a Brida future… even if the printing faded and nothing worked the first time.

And then—almost casually—the real heart of the episode lands:

He’s tired of talking. Now he wants to do.

Fruitloop reframes it in her way: it’s not about shouting to a room; it’s about what you shout. The message. The line that makes people care. Like changing a sign from “help me” to “it’s a lovely day and I can’t see it.”

They call it mindset. They call it perspective. They call it Brida without even having to say it.

The ending: a milestone, a bush dream, and the illusion preserved

They wrap Episode 31 with the comforting routine of pretending they’ll only speak next week, even though everyone knows the work and friendship will continue as soon as the recording stops.

They note they’re now 19 episodes away from episode 50. They joke about doing episode 50 from the bush. They let the dream sit there, half terrifying, half thrilling.

And in classic Peeling Potatoes fashion, they leave you with a feeling that is both soft and sturdy:

Life is rocky. Projects are huge. Mindsets wobble. Schedules collapse. Potatoes become philosophers.

But the friendship is real.
The humour returns.
And the path—however cobblestoned—still goes forward.

Technical note: for some weird reason, the settings in Zoom decided to take a life of their own. Somehow, the majestic Fruitloop can only be heard, but not seen, and the Mayor…well, I can only apologise…….