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M.J. Iuppa lives on Red Rooster Farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Most recent poems, lyric essays and fictions have appeared in the following journals: Poppy Road Review, Black Poppy Review, Digging to the Roots, 2015 Calendar, Ealain, Poetry Pacific Review, Grey Sparrow Press: Snow Jewel Anthology, 100 Word Story, Avocet, Eunoia Review, Festival Writer, Silver Birch Press: Where I Live Anthology,Turtle Island Quarterly, Wild Quarterly, Boyne Berries Magazine (Ireland), The Lake, (U.K.), Punchnel’s, Camroc Review, Tar River Poetry, Corvus Review, Clementine Poetry, Postcard Poetry & Prose, and Brief Encounters: A Collection of Contemporary Nonfiction, edited by Judith Kitchen and Dinah Lenney(Norton), among others. She is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College. One Potato, Two Once again, in the south garden, in mid-May, we plant our fourth generation of red, white, and gold potatoes, wondering what this year will hold. The dirt mounds well in its thick crumble and, in a matter of seven days, green shoots begin to break through, soon to transform into sinewy branches that leaf out, lush and full. By end of July, clusters of white frilly flowers appear— a sure sign that a number of potatoes, smaller than a baby’s fist, are growing obliquely below— nestled in pockets of soft- haired roots. * Bliss, one part quiet, two parts comfort, and a heaping plate of fried potatoes. It’s a Sunday meal prepared by my father, the good doctor, who has spent the long sleepless week ushering babies into the world. Here, he is, apron tied around his waist, washing, drying, slicing potatoes; getting the Sunbeam electric skillet hot with just the right amount of oil, so when he slides the slices into the heat, a heavenly sizzle erupts into a cloud of steam. * We watch, closely, the way he turns the layers of potato in slow-motion, until they are cooked to a golden brown. Without being asked, we set out dinner plates on the counter near the skillet. In short order, he divvies up the hot slices and tells us to take the first plate to Mom, who’s resting upstairs. We set the breakfast tray with fork, napkin, steaming plate, and side of ketchup; then, singing a few bars of “Pomp and Circumstance,” we climb the winding staircase to present her dinner in bed. I love watching her take the first bite—her mouth savoring what we’ve been waiting for. When she says, “Go tell your father that it’s delicious,” we turn and fly downstairs, two steps at a time, to report his success and claim our servings that are waiting for us. My sister and I take our places at the table in the kitchen nook, and together, like Mom, we repeat the ceremony of first taste. No arguments. This is bliss. * Full-bellied, nearly nine months pregnant, and still waiting. Ask any woman how she feels at term, and her answer will concur with mine: planted, like a potato— ready to be pulled free. * Counting, that is, on your knowing how to read the garden’s internal clock. Everything depends on a season of conditions. Yet, curled leaves on sagging branches signals the hour of ready, even if we’re not. We stand squared off, hands on our hips. This is the start of hard labor. We work together, sinking our pitchforks into the base of the mounds to lift the caps of soil that hold the cache of potatoes. Once a plant is pulled away, we scoop up the small spuds; then dig with our hands, grabbing hold of the larger ones hiding in the earth’s cool recesses. When we drag these potatoes up to the light, we are thrilled by the heft of their size and weight as we place them on the flats. Soon as the rows are picked clean, we look back over our shoulders at the horde drying in the noon sun, and boast about our remarkable accomplishments: What do you think? Have you ever seen such beauties? Everyone is going to love them.
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