Max Miller, Staff Writer
When I was in third grade, I was obsessed with the idea of the potato. There was something about it - it’s eyes, it’s lopsided shape, it’s ability to fight off scurvy - that endeared me to it endlessly. I appreciated the potato’s slightly downtrodden yet defiant nature. As a result, when asked about my favorite food, “potato” was without a doubt the answer. I was so captivated by potatoes that people began making them anytime I went over to their house - which spurred the realization that I did not actually enjoy the taste of tater and instead just found them mildly amusing. (I call this part of my life “The Potato Debacle of 2011.”)
Though over a decade removed from this obsession, the root vegetable still occupies an extremely special place in my heart. I still feel intense joy whenever the topic of tubers comes up. When I found Mantua Potato Festival’s Facebook page, I knew I had to be there.
So, a few friends and I made the hour-long trek out to Mantua, Ohio. (Thank you Marta for driving. I appreciate you immensely.) Once we arrived and paid the $5 for parking, we made our way to the fairgrounds.
We were greeted by bountiful food stands, although the vast majority featured run-of-the-mill fair food rather than specifically potato products. We initially did some brief rounds of the grounds, stopping at a stand that was selling stuffed animal backpacks and hats with move-able ears. As we did our rounds, we stumbled upon the cornhole tournament, which was, in a word, intense. This was not your campus cornhole. There was no chatter or smiles, no laughs or confused looks surrounding scoring. The contestants were almost businesslike in demeanor. The only sounds were occasional frustrated grunts and the thump of small corn-filled bags smacking potato logo-emblazoned wood surfaces in an indistinct rhythm, all culminating in a sonic atmosphere that resembled something like free jazz. They were incredible at cornhole. I’ve never seen anything like it. (Also a fun tidbit: two of the four finalists had bowl cuts. Loving the bowl cut representation!)
The cornhole-watching gave us a bit of an appetite (as it is known to do), so we headed over to a stand titled “Pierogies and More!” and, after a brief discussion, we decided to buy some pierogies. (When you go to a potato festival in Northeast Ohio, you get pierogies.) They were fried, which was a pleasant surprise, and with the addition of onions was a lovely experience. Who doesn’t love some good fried potato?
At 1:30, it was finally time. The Mashed Potato Wrestling began. It felt like time stopped for a moment. Everybody in the greater Mantua area seemed to crowd around the blue kiddie pool which had been painstakingly filled by just-add-water mashed potatoes for about an hour prior. Even the on-duty police officer stopped to film.
The first skirmishes pitted child against child. Initially, there was a bit of a strange energy running throughout the crowd. It seemed that the reality of the situation was setting in; all in attendance would be watching two small children fight for pride in a large pit of watery mashed potatoes. The hope, of course, was that both small children would feel good about their spud-soaked performance after the fact. But there was undoubtedly a fear that one of the children would cry in embarrassment. Luckily, that didn’t happen, and we were able to fully enjoy the children potato fights.
The children always began their fights by throwing handfuls of wet mashed potatoes at each other. Each handful would come apart as soon as it was thrown, the potatoes splattering harmlessly into the air. About five to ten seconds in, someone would yell something like “Is this even mashed potato wrestling?” One kid would then try to take the other down. More often than not, the takedown-ee would evade the takedown-er. Eventually both would slip, cover themselves with mashed potatoes in the process, and then proceed to once again throw mashed potatoes at each other. One pairing seemed to truly dislike each other, acting with true vitriol towards one another in the ring, or rather, the blue mashed potato kiddy pool.
Aside from one mother-young son matchup, there was one adult battle, fought by a father and his adult son. The father was a complete showman, addressing the crowd before the battle with, “My last name’s McGregor, just to let you know” (in reference to MMA superstar Conor McGregor), followed by a flex. Both fighters took a few last puffs of their cigarettes before stepping into the cold potato pool. The hypothetical bell rang and the two were off. It was immediately quite the match - within a few moments, the two were enthusiastically rolling around in mashed potatoes as if they lived for it. The father took a bit of initiative early, making a large show of spanking his son. This was followed quickly by an attempted choke and then a painful-looking wedgie that ripped the band off of the son’s boxers. I got the chance to talk to the father after his fight, asking, “What inspired the wedgie?” He laughed and responded, “That was the only thing I could grab.”
Perhaps the most questionable part of the entire endeavor was that the competition was judged based on crowd noise. This unfortunately resulted in a few sparse bits of applause for children that lost their fights. It was, truly, a tough scene.
After the wrestling, we walked around a bit, eventually running into a man promoting some sort of automobile racing. He had brought a machine called the “Super Pooper,” which was a toilet attached to a motor. We all took turns sitting on it. Was arguably life-changing.
We then bought snow cones from a stand called “Deez Cold Ones.” I ordered the flavor titled “Fuzzy Navel,” which was a pleasant orange/peach combination that was refreshing as it was colorful. During the snowcone ordering process, the whole group got photographed by Cleveland Magazine. (We unfortunately did not make the final cut of the published article, which makes complete sense.) The photographer offhandedly complimented my JNCO Jeans (They are not JNCO they are just big, it's the new style! This was the second time someone complimented them during the festival and told me that their generation popularized big pants. I told them I was very thankful. Big pants rule.) and then guessed that we were Oberlin students, which we all sheepishly confirmed. Were we really that obvious?
The next event was a concert by Country Reign, a six-piece country band from Northeast Ohio. They were an exciting watch, partially due to their many quips about potatoes in between songs. During one break, one member yelled, “Let’s mash ‘em up!” In another, the guitarist yelled, “Taters! Come on!” A personal favorite moment was when the bassist asked, “What’s the best day to eat taters?” and answered, “Friday!”
The Tater Tot Eating Contest began around 3:30. Each participant was given a plate of tater tots. Whoever finished first was crowned winner. Contestants were not allowed to use their hands - it was pure face-to-tot. First, the children took the stage and, lord, was it electric. At first, it was anybody’s game. About 15 tater tots in, it became clear that there were two true contenders, a boy and a girl. It was an absolute battle. Each took turns on the top, fighting purely for pride, with the girl eventually taking the glory. The adult division was also quite the scene. One man, seemingly some sort of teacher or daycare administrator, had a large contingent of children chanting his name. This man completely dominated the competition. Not only did he beat every other competitor by a margin of about twenty tater tots, he took breaks to showboat while others toiled away at their taters in vain. He egged his supporters on mid-competition, directing the chants of his name like an over-excited classically-trained conductor. When he finished, the crowd went ballistic. It was the best athletic performance I have ever seen live.
How can you not be enamored with Ohio? I am consistently impressed - or vaguely annoyed, depending on the day - by the vigor with which some Oberlin students hold on to the idea that Ohio is a land of nothingness. Somehow, it seems cooler to view the Buckeye State with a bland, meaningless vitriol than it is to attempt to discover the beauty in Midwestern alcoves. Truthfully, I do not fully understand this indistinct hatred of Oberlin’s home state. Ohio is the home of those courageous enough to roll around in wet mashed potatoes or stuff their face in a paper plate of tater tots. What’s not to love?