Magic Myrna Smashed Potatoes - TG2017

Sh1t!

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.

One heartbeat.

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.

“Alright,” 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.”



Continued...

...continued,

…IT!!!!!, still reverberated around the tiny kitchen.

The peach bowl had split in half. That force caused a small tsunami of potatoes to jump up about half the height of the bowl and move outwards. The remnants made Jackson Pollock-esque patterns and blobs emanating from the center of the steaming pile of fingerlings.

“Hello??,” came a voice from the front room area. A few moments of shuffling passed.

“Oh, there you are,” said mom. “Dear? Why are you crying?,” she asked the form that had sunk to her knees and covered her eyes with her hands to either hide the sight of the mess or to catch her tears.

She answered in halts and fits, “I… I… I… *sniff*... knock… kn…kn…-ock-ed… *pause*… the potatoes off the counter!,” came the guilty cry of a woman wailing for her demon lover.

“There, there, dear,” said mom as she helped her suffering child off the floor. “We will clean it up. We can make some more.”

“No we can’t!!,” *sniff*, “that was the last bag,” she explained while being sat down on the little chair placed next to the little table.

“Nonsense!,” said the mother with calm, motherly authority.

“What?!, I bought the last bag this morning!”, came a near desperate plea.

“Nonsense,” came the reaffirmation.

Sitting there not knowing what to say she watched as her mother began cleaning up the mess on the floor.

Watching the bowl disappear into the dustbin unlocked her tongue. “Mom, I bought the last bag. It was so crowded because of the snow storm. Everybody was doing last minute shopping. And I bought the last bag of Magic Myrnas in the store!”

Mom wiped the rest of the starchy mess up. “There,” she said while washing her hands, “Good as new.”

“Mom, aren’t you listening?! I was looking forward to making your potatoes all week,” she said pointing out what she thought was obvious by now, “And now they’re ruined.” She pouted. Then caught herself and went back to a hurt look.

“Huh,” said mom. She turned around and began to walk out of the kitchenette.

“We will not have mashed potatoes this year!,” she yelled at her mom’s back.

Mom returned carrying plastic containers in an array of plastic shopping bags back, placing them on the counter, while explaining, “I got to the store the other day. I bought all of what I was going to make.” Out for another trip to the front room, “And I noticed they were running low on the fingerlings…” Mom returned with a 10-lb bag. “I saw them sitting there. And I know how much you love Magic Myrna. So I bought the last 10-lb bag for you as a house warming present,” gently continued her mother while handing a bag of potatoes to her shocked daughter.

More tears but this time of joy. A hug. “Thank you mom!,” she could barely mumble loud enough to be heard even with her mom’s ear so close, “I love you. Happy Thanksgiving.”

-end-

a reply to: TEOTWAWKIAIFF


Good entry. DB would be proud if he was a real person and not my sock.

Magic Myrna are described as, "[Grower] says that people are “still calling and asking about Magic Myrna,” which tastes somewhat like a sweet potato and has a red and white mottled skin with a creamy, yellow flesh."
Source.

I bought a bag having no idea what they tasted like. I made breakfast with about 2 lbs in a farmer's skillet.

Fried works, boiled in oil would work, baked in an oven, as well as mashed potatoes. They are yellow and creamy but not mushy.

I do not know if they are an Alaskan variety only so did some research (hence all the different types mentioned in the story)! I figured it would make a good topic for TG2017.

TEOTWAWKIAIFF, non-writer

a reply to: AugustusMasonicus

Thanks for kind words... about your sock! lol.

I really like mashed potatoes. Another, "write what you know" story.

originally posted by: TEOTWAWKIAIFF
I really like mashed potatoes. Another, "write what you know" story.

If I wrote what I knew I'd be confined to solitary in a super max.

originally posted by: AugustusMasonicus

originally posted by: TEOTWAWKIAIFF
I really like mashed potatoes. Another, "write what you know" story.

If I wrote what I knew I'd be confined to solitary in a super max.

Is expertly shoveling your roof some kind of crime now?

a reply to: AugustusMasonicus

Looks like you know football! And some bar jokes! Nice one!

When Augustus' first line makes you groan you know your in for a riot of a time!



Thanks DB for the topic! Even if the Hidden Master pulled the strings!

originally posted by: network dude
Is expertly shoveling your roof some kind of crime now?

It should be. Winter is not allowed to ever be that bad.

originally posted by: TEOTWAWKIAIFF
Looks like you know football!

The only thing I know about football this year is my Giants suck bigly.

Nice one. I was glad it all worked out. Mom to the rescue!

a reply to: AugustusMasonicus

Funny, it is a bout this time of the year (after baseball) that I start to watch football on a regular basis.

Nice to know that Jesus doesn't like money! I hope he likes mashed potatoes!

a reply to: Vroomfondel

Thanks! What is mom for except that solid foundation in a whirlwind of chaos? Plus I luv A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving! I just could not bring myself to write about toast and popcorn!

originally posted by: AugustusMasonicus

originally posted by: network dude
Is expertly shoveling your roof some kind of crime now?

It should be. Winter is not allowed to ever be that bad.

Oh, it's not.......down here. Muhahahahahahahah!!!!!

originally posted by: TEOTWAWKIAIFF
I hope he likes mashed potatoes!

Only people with mental problems don't like mashed potatoes.

originally posted by: network dude
Oh, it's not.......down here. Muhahahahahahahah!!!!!

I hate you.

a reply to: TEOTWAWKIAIFF

That was great, really

Should have called it "Mums really are magic" maybe?

a reply to: SprocketUK

Sorry, didn't see your reply!

The title was a last second decision. I was originally thinking along the lines of "Mushy Potatoes" as the subject matter is along those lines.

I did the final copy and made the decision to swap titles. I hit "reply" before I could change my mind again!

Glad you liked it!

Robbie [to Julia]: Sounds to me like you got your pick... of any man in this room to dance with.
So I want you to take your time... and find amongst all these young studs here tonight...
the coolest, most un-losery guy in the bunch.

Young studs: Pick me. Pick me Julia! No, pick me!
Please pick me!

Julia [to the coolest, most un-losery guy]: May I have this dance?

The Wedding Singer (1998)