I was reading the New York Times today and came upon an entire section devoted to Thanksgiving. One of the articles was about making the perfect bowl of mashed potatoes and it’s introduction read, “It is easy to forget that a plain bowl of smooth, simple mashed potatoes, a cornerstone of the Thanksgiving meal, can be both easy and celestial.” It reminded me of something.
Mashed potatoes are one of the dishes I make best. The keys, I think, are constant attention, good butter from Ireland, sea salt, and a heaping dollop of sour cream. They come out light and creamy and…celestial. Everytime. Except, that is, the last time I made them. We were cooking Sunday dinner, an ex-boyfriend and I; he was making fried chicken and spinach, I was making mashed potatoes. Something went wrong—I think it was too few potatoes, too much milk, and my own nervousness that I couldn’t seem to shake for some inexplicable reason. They came out like liquid with little chunks of potato floating around. It looked completely disgusting. The Ex took a big bite and proclaimed, “It’s good!”
“Stop it—I can’t let you eat that. It’s okay, just put the spoon down,” I responded. He took another bite.
“Well, they’re not mashed potatoes, but I swear, they’re good,” he said, before stubbornly bringing them to the dinner table and eating them steadily throughout our meal.
I still don’t believe that they were anywhere close to “good” (I refused to try them). But it was sweet. HE was sweet.
I guess the article reminded me that although things with the Ex weren’t always “easy and celestial”, they weren’t all that bad either.
