Today I have mostly been at the doctor, which has disrupted any notion of actual y'know working; but I was footling about at my desk and caught sight of this out of the corner of my eye and for a moment couldn't quite remember why I had printed out an image of a potato, though I knew it was obvious really.
One of those big red Idaho potatoes. We have one as a fridge magnet also. (M'wife spent her formative years in Pocatello, Idaho; m'mother-in-law lives there still.)
So now of course I am thinking how much Martian soil would undoubtedly be really good for potatoes, as is the soil of Idaho; and storybrain is wondering where the story is in that, even while fretful-porpentine brain is kicking it and yammering on about how that's not the Mars story we're supposed to be writing now, or next, or next after that...
Le sigh. It is hard to be storybrain, especially when writerbrain can't keep up.