Peeling Potatoes — Episode 35

Weather whiplash, rock-paper-scissors romance, a French “duck,” and two stone giraffes on a wine shelf.

“We are live. Good morning, Fruit.”

“Good morning.”

“Are we live? Come on.”

“Yes, we are live.”

“Hooray. We are live. Episode… uh… 30—”

“35.”

“I got it right! 35. Yes. Bingo. I checked it three days ago.”

And just like that, before the day even properly begins, we witness something rare and sacred:

The Mayor remembered a number.

“You can remember what you did three days ago.”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Bits and pieces. Okay.”

Welcome to Episode 35—where bits and pieces somehow become the whole story.

35 degrees, the end of the world, and a tracksuit top plot twist

The Mayor is mortally shocked, which is his most reliable operating system.

“Yesterday you were speaking to somebody in Germany… I know this client… she lives 50, 60 km away… we share the same weather despite the border… and it’s cold and miserable and wet here. And you said it was 35° and I read it in the pineapple. The grass is drying. The world is coming to an end. And now I see you with a tracksuit top. Hang on. What happened?”

Fruitloop meets him where he lives:

“Exactly. What happened? Talk. Let’s talk about the weather.”

Summer is supposed to be warm. Fruitloop likes warm weather. But this week wasn’t warm—this week was rude. The hottest week so far. Yesterday one of the hottest days.

The grass took a beating. Yellow patches appeared like quiet protest.

Then her husband announces: it’s going to rain this weekend.

Fruitloop doesn’t believe him. It’s too hot. But then—while cooking last night—she sees the clouds, sees the sun, and thinks: maybe.

And today her son has Valentine’s Day at school. Casual clothes allowed. Last night he chooses an outfit like a bold young artist:

Orange pants. Red shirt.

Fruitloop: no. No orange pants. Blue or black. But not orange.

And then morning arrives and the weather decides to laugh at everyone:

It’s raining. It hasn’t stopped.

“At 7 it was 17°. I think it’s 18° now.”

“So it’s 18°… and you’re wearing a tracksuit top.”

“Not a very thick one.”

Shiny, practical, South African rain survival gear.

“The grass will be happy.”

“Grass will be happy. My husband is happy because he hates the heat.”

The Mayor, always ready to negotiate life itself:

“Won’t you send him up here?”

Fruitloop: “He’s been asking when we can do a switch.”

And suddenly Episode 35 quietly becomes a documentary about a potential international husband exchange.

Fruitloop’s “suggestions” (also known as commands)

Fruitloop has assigned homework.

The Mayor has done it.

Which leads to this loving accusation:

“Your suggestions are more like orders. Thou shalt do so otherwise by the pain of death you will suffer.”

“Wow.”

“I know whose boss—you, not me.”

And here comes the assignment:

Bring a random object to the meeting.

Fruitloop adds the kind of detail that makes it real: when she took her object, her husband looked at her like she’d lost the plot.

She said: “Don’t ask.”

The Mayor immediately volunteers for chaos:

“I have his number. I think we need to communicate more—your husband and I. A back channel… like we did before Christmas.”

Fruitloop agrees that this has happened before: the men communicated behind her back because she was the main beneficiary.

As always: warm love. Mild conspiracy. Full commitment.

A hello to Bernardet (and then: immediate off-piste)

They received a WhatsApp from a young lady in the Philippines named Bernardet. The Mayor suggests they don’t formally dedicate the episode, but they can show her who they are, what they do, and everything else in between.

Fruitloop agrees.

Then they state the core doctrine of Peeling Potatoes:

“Our plan is not to plan.”

“Like we usually do.”

And then—because this is Peeling Potatoes—the plan immediately becomes rock-paper-scissors.

Rock. Paper. Scissors. Alignment as a problem.

The Mayor wants “ladies first.” Fruitloop thinks he should go first. They compromise by doing something mature:

They play rock-paper-scissors.

Fruitloop: “No cheating.”

The Mayor: he hasn’t done this for about 450 trillion years.

“What is rock?”

Fruitloop demonstrates patiently: rock, paper, scissors.

They try.

“One, two, three.”

They mess it up.

The Mayor announces:

“We are not a language school.”

Fruitloop confirms:

“We don’t teach. We just host.”

They try again.

They keep matching.

Both paper. Again.

The Mayor panics—not because he’s losing, but because they’re the same:

“This is one of our big problems. We are so aligned. It is frightening how aligned we are.”

He begs her:

“Please just do something. Be yourself for once.”

Finally—finally—someone loses.

The Mayor loses.

“So I have to start with my random object.”

And the Mayor becomes a quizmaster.

France: croissants, love, and a road to Provence

The Mayor won’t reveal the object yet. He wants to build a scene.

“In which country do I live?”

“France.”

“Tell me clichés about France.”

Fruitloop instantly delivers:

“Croissants and pastries.”

The Mayor: “Voila. You have captured the esprit.”

Then:

“The Eiffel Tower.”

“The city of love.”

Fruitloop adds champagne. The Mayor decides she needs education (tenderly insulting—his favourite flavour).

He introduces: Provence.

Stone houses. Cobble streets. Little cafés. Good food. Better wine (he insists it’s superior to South Africa’s, and Fruitloop allows the insult as a sign of affection). Animated conversation. That French phrase he loves like a personal religion:

Savoir-vivre.
The art of knowing how to live.

And now he asks:

“How do you get from Paris to a small village in the province?”

“By train.”

Yes.

Or by bicycle—preferably with a beret and baguette.

But the Mayor wants an iconic car.

And now:

The random object arrives.

Exhibit A: the French duck, the slow-life symbol

The Mayor presents a small model car—an iconic French classic, a 2CV. (And later reveals Germans call it a duck.)

Manufactured in the 1940s. Continued into the 70s (as he remembers). Cult status now. No longer manufactured. Expensive. Loved.

He tells a quiet bucket-list story: a woman in his village had one in her garage. One day he gathered courage and asked if he could at least be driven in it.

She said yes. She was German, so it was efficient:

“We will do this.”

No café. No wine. Just the drive.

And it surprised him: comfortable. Simple. Vintage. The engine is probably the most advanced thing in it.

This car, for him, is not a toy.

It is a symbol:

A slower pace.
A human pace.
Good company. Good people. Good food.
Less stress. More living.

And the hard truth:

He keeps it to remind him not to become “a complete idiot,” because work has been intense. Not always productive—sometimes destructive—pushing something into the world.

And Fruitloop has been saying it for weeks:

“Get a hobby. Breathe. Live a little.”

He says, “Tomorrow.”
He says it three times.

But the car sits on the windowsill to his left, and one day he finally believes her. He moves it onto his desk, right next to the laptop.

Not to decorate.
To interrupt.

A small object saying: there are limits.

And when his body says “Frank, be careful,” and when the feedback arrives through silence and body language and reactions… he knows.

Maybe it’s time to take the duck out of the box and go for a spin.

“I feel so relaxed,” he says.

And in Peeling Potatoes, that sentence is never small.

Fruitloop’s object: two stone giraffes and a honeymoon memory

Now it’s Fruitloop’s turn.

The Mayor tries to guess. Africa. Wildlife. Kruger. Elephants. Lions.

No elephant. No lion.

Not a cow. Not a spider. Not Nuggets (their chicken-turned-rooster).

So he surrenders:

“Reveal your mystery object, please.”

Fruitloop shows:

Two giraffes.
Heavy. Carved from rock. Standing together.

They look like they’re kissing.

The Mayor asks if giraffes kiss.

Fruitloop: no, they fight with their necks.

Fruitloop calmly explains she wrote a reflection that morning—testing parenting skills while creating a Lego design—and the giraffe energy makes sense. He hasn’t read it yet because of meetings, but he wants the title and promises to read it soon.

Then she tells the heart of it:

She and her husband bought the giraffes on their honeymoon, on the coast side (Durban gets named). They wanted to engrave their anniversary date on it, but never got around to it.

The giraffes sit on the wine shelf. They pass them every day. It’s memory, symbol, reminder.

Also—practicality:

“When we have intruders, we can use it as a weapon too.”

The Mayor takes a note for survival. Fruitloop clarifies: he is not an intruder. Intruders should fear the giraffe couple.

Dear listener: if you ever visit unannounced, you may be greeted by two stone giraffes on a wine shelf and the quiet certainty that Fruitloop has options.

Giraffe-neck parenting and the wisdom of not knowing

The Mayor wonders if a long giraffe neck would help Fruitloop parent—standing in the kitchen and peering into the child’s room.

Fruitloop delivers a sentence that belongs on a fridge:

“Sometimes it’s better not knowing what he’s doing.”

So no.

The Mayor says instead of sticking his nose into other people’s business, he’d stick his neck in.

Fruitloop likes that.

And then she begins the Fruitloop Questions™.

Crimes, medieval duels, COVID borders, and a French ghost who steals the car

Fruitloop asks:

“If this object were arrested today, what crime would it have committed?”

The Mayor first says speeding—then corrects himself: the car would be arrested for going too slow. Or driving oddly after a long Sunday lunch. Or being refueled with wine because someone got carried away with the French lifestyle.

Then he tells a COVID story: France looked strict on paper—forms, limits, rules, a global impression of police everywhere and guillotine consequences.

Reality: empty streets, empty shops, and almost no police presence.

Germany at the border: fortress energy. Questiond. Systems. Wires.

France: cigarette energy. “Drive on.”

Best time to shop? Lunchtime. Because the shops are emptier and the police also want to eat.

So the car’s crime is deeper than slow driving:

It doesn’t know how to live yet.
That’s why it gets arrested.

Then the Mayor asks about Fruitloop’s wine shelf—whine shelf versus wine shelf—because complaining is always nearby.

It’s a wine shelf. It holds twelve bottles. Mostly empty. Mostly red.

Wine lies down. Giraffes stand on top.

Do giraffes drink wine? No. They drink water.

The Mayor imagines mulled wine in France, giraffes bending down awkwardly, standing up dizzy, and invents the giraffe dance.

Then they dream bigger:

Husband exchange.
Duck to Kruger.
Trunk full of French wine.
Animals gathering around.
Dr Dolittle energy.
Disney, here they come.

Fruitloop asks another question:

“If you used this object as a weapon in a medieval duel, what would your finishing move be called?”

The Mayor answers:

“Dying of laughter.”

Because the knights would be so shocked by his little car innocence that they would laugh themselves off their horses and die.

Then the Mayor asks Fruitloop:

What if her husband and son bring home a baby giraffe?

Fruitloop says she would refuse responsibility:

“It’s your giraffe. You take care of it.”

Not her circus. Not her monkeys. Not her giraffes.

And then the punchline of reality:

Giraffes eat leaves. They don’t have the right trees. Palm trees don’t help.

So no giraffe. No zebra. No wild animal adoption program.

The Mayor says:

“You are being haunted.”

Fruitloop asks:

“How does this object help you negotiate with a ghost?”

The Mayor says there is no negotiation—because it’s a French ghost.

The French ghost becomes nostalgic, attaches to the car, drives it to Paris, circles the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower, and people assume France invented self-driving cars decades ago.

French pride rises. Cheese increases. Wine increases.

The ghost takes over:

“This is my car.”

The Mayor: “Okay. Please bring it home in one piece.”

Fruitloop concludes:

“The ghost knows how to live.”

Cartoon giraffes in Paris: economy class, baguettes, lipstick, and wine

Would Fruitloop’s giraffes visit France?

Yes—family vacation.

They’d practice French phrases all the way (like in that movie she can almost name).

They’d fly economy—no leg room—which is absurd for giraffes, and that’s why it’s funny.

They’d visit the Eiffel Tower. The cathedral. Eat baguettes (one bite, gone).

Shopping? Maybe. A giraffe fits into a mall.

What would they buy?

Earrings. Scarves. Handbags. Shoes.
Red lipstick for Valentine’s Day.
Flowers. Chocolates.

And wine.

Not champagne. Not bubbly.

Wine.

Giraffe gifts would depend on personality. Ideal giraffe personality:

Fun. Outgoing. Spontaneous.
Likes books. Intelligent. Wise.
Can hold a decent conversation.

Then the Mayor drops a delightful fact:

In Germany, these cars are called a duck.

Quack quack.

Aliens, progress, air fryers, and simple pleasures

Fruitloop asks:

“If aliens found only this object, what would they assume humanity’s greatest achievement was?”

The Mayor answers:

Progress—but in a slower, wiser direction.

Aliens would wonder why humans are gone if they could build something so human, so perfect: technology plus the art of living.

Fruitloop admits she expected something from the kitchen—because of the previous shopping bag object and because the Mayor’s wife has many kitchen gadgets.

The Mayor confesses his relationship with gadgets: air fryer died, he celebrated, then she bought another, bigger, now it dominates the counter “like a giraffe.”

He is cooking fish curry tonight: good fish, tomatoes, curry leaves, ginger, pan, gas stove. No air fryer needed.

“Chop, chop, chop. Cook, eat, enjoy.”

Fruitloop sums it up:

“The simple pleasures in life.”

Then they return to giraffes—because of course they do.

What hobbies do giraffes have?

Fruitloop imagines cartoon giraffes playing basketball as a family. Dribbling is unclear. Baseball bat enters the scene accidentally. Nets must be higher. Humans versus giraffes would be interesting, but real giraffes are dangerous—people have been trampled.

But in cartoons: nothing goes wrong.

The Mayor wonders if giraffes can see their hooves, if they know what they’re stepping on, head in the clouds.

Then he panics:

“Are we recording this?”

Fruitloop: yes.

Live doesn’t mean recording.

So they confirm:

Live. Alive. Breathing. Recording.
Freezing—only on the Mayor’s side.

Tracksuit giraffes and homework for the weekend

Would a giraffe be cold at 17–18 degrees?

Fruitloop: he’d be okay.

What would giraffes wear?

A sporty giraffe. Tracksuit. Adidas tracksuit.
(Disclaimer: not sponsored. Other brands exist.)

The Mayor says Fruitloop’s son—orange pants and red shirt—could revolutionize French haute couture.

He proposes weekend homework:

Draw a dressed giraffe.

Fruitloop agrees: good idea.

And they close Episode 35 the way only they can:

Random objects.
French ducks.
Stone honeymoon giraffes.
Cartoon giraffe fashion.
A ghost who knows how to live.

Next week might include Bruce—the futurist, the AI wizard—so it will be heavy. Mount Everest training recommended.

Fruitloop gives an order:

Practice living a relaxed life this weekend.

The Mayor asks if it’s an order.

“It’s an order.”

And he obeys with dramatic fear:

“Fruitloop’s orders must be obeyed… or the guillotine… no matter if you’re a giraffe.”

“Wow.”

“Okay… let’s leave it there.”

“Let’s leave it there. Bye bye.”

There it is, all about using two random objects to explore how to live — slower, lighter, more honestly — without ever pretending you planned to say something meaningful.

🍍✨