And in slow motion, every molecule glowing a light yellow creamed color, no sound, no breaths in or out, or heart pulse, the bowl tilted away,
standing still, in mid-air but still in motion.
The blue lined rim tilted back into view. The inner porcelain white positively shouting out its freedom to an uncaring universe. The soft peaks
standing, proud, erect: a sailor’s dream seeing the snowcapped peaks of home.
Another deafening thump.
The UFO filled with Solanum tuberosum
doing a slow hula. Fingerlings digging into the sides of the bowl due to the sudden, and rapid,
acceleration. Gravity being a harsh taskmistress looked on nonplussed. Steam trailing behind leaving a smoke trail above the stadium filled with fans
anticipating the game about to begin while their attention becomes focused on the skydiver above them at that moment.
Heartbeat and a breath in.
It was a quiet November day. The new fallen snow was being shoved around by near jubilant bagboys about the supermarket’s entrance. Coats unzipped
due to the exertion; the long shhhhhhtttcccck sound as the blade pushed away the hexagonal precipitation into ever larger lumps and clumps revealing
a moist, grey concrete streaked with lines of white.
Venus made her entrance into a scene of vibrancy and familiar sounds: wheels on shopping carts squeaking around equally squeaking floors; foot falls
of galoshes; plastic bags rustling, the din of cash registers opening and closing; the blips of scanners and card readers; “Thanks! Come again”;
somebody’s phone ringing; “Hey Gary! How’s the family?”; the voice of God speaking in code to scurrying ants that did not feel like pushing
snow around, made a cacophonic symphony.
,” she said to herself, “One job. In and out.
” She bent over to grab the hand cart and her scarf, then her hair, decided
to tentatively test the air. Straightening again, she tried to push the wayward strand back but only added static electricity to the lock from her
still mittened hand. In one quick motion, the mitten was added to the bottom of the black plastic carrying container. Switching hands the mirrored
pair joined its mate while she took the first step into the madding crowd.
The tan jacket and red scarf was easy to spot heading off towards the vegetable isle. The traffic of shopping carts, kids asking questions to
indifferent parents about sugary cereal, people staring blankly at the quinoa, unsure whether to buy a bag or to ask a harried worker on how to make
the infernal stuff, somehow it all made sense while songs from the 1980s provided a poppy background.
“Jeez! Look at all the people!
” she spat at her herself, half in jest and half in fear. In front of her was the Maginot Line of shoppers
playing a delicate rugby game that was also part dance as corn and squash flew off the shelves and into carts.
Undaunted, she stepped into the fray.
Moses could not have parted the Red Sea with any more ease!
The timing was perfect and like a supermodel going to the front of the concert she found herself staring at 5- and 10-lb bags of potatoes. Russet was
proclaiming he was from Idaho; Yukon Gold implied they were from Alaska; New Potatoes sounded like they had wicked Bostonian accents; there were a
couple from the Adirondacks, interracial, both blue and red; purple sat next to yellow; red seemed to come in full and half sizes; butter, petite,
bakers, yams, “or are they sweet potatoes, I forget,
” she mused while searching for her quarry… “Where the hell are they?!,
she said calmly to herself while adrenal glands began stretching before being inserted into the game.
She paid, the last of her cash, at the register. Butter, milk, chives, and the last 5-lb bag of Magic Mryna fingerling potatoes, her favorite, red,
buttery fingerlings, destined for mashed potatoes. “It is a bit more expensive but that is what the Holidays are for,
” she self-justified,
“Besides, I can always roast them if mom does not feel like mashed potatoes.