“At the front window was something that looked like a machine gun with a cluster of barrels. “Rocket launcher?” he wondered aloud. “Nope, nope! Potatoes. Ella doesn't like potatoes.”“Ella! Where are the others?”“Roof. Ogre-watching. Ella doesn't like ogres. Potatoes.”Potatoes? Frank didn't understand until he swiveled the machine gun around. Its eight barrels were loaded with spuds. At the base of the gun, a basket was filled with more edible ammunition…“They have cannonballs,” Frank said, “and we have a potato gun.”“Starch,” Ella said thoughtfully. “Starch is bad for ogres.”

“Carter, not to be unkind," I said, "but the last few months you've been seeing messages about Zia everywhere. Two weeks ago, you thought she was sending you a distress call in your mashed potatoes.""It was a Z! Carved right in the potatoes!”

“Ella, just stay here. Stay safe.""Safe," Ella repeated. "Ella likes being safe. Safety in numbers. Safety deposit boxes. Ella will go with Tyson.""What?" Percy said. "Oh... fine, whatever. Just don't get hurt. And Mrs. O'Leary—""ROOOF.""How do you feel about pulling a chariot?”

“Ella is nervous,” the harpy muttered from her perch on the railing. “The elephant. The elephant is watching Ella.”

“The potatoes were starch grenades. The canned carrots were revolting because that is their nature.”

“Six minus six is zero. Spears are good for subtraction Ella said”

“Lord, you're Irish," said Will. "Can you make things that don't have potatoes in them? We had an Irish cook once when I was a boy. Potato pie, potato custard, potatoes with potato sauce...”