Say It Again

I’m taking a cue from one of my favorite blogbuds Chrissy over at I Shoulda Been a Stripper. She had the brilliant idea of reposting some of her earlier posts on Sundays…and since I do believe they’re totally worth a second look, I’m following suit. Hope you enjoy!

Mashed Potato Pants (originally published 10.26.08)

My brother was supposedly relocating for work. Temporarily. No-one was sure of exactly when...or where…but the announcement made its way down the pipeline and the troops were mobilized.

As is the case in any Italian family, food therefore must be consumed in an orderly (or disorderly…it really makes no difference) fashion to commemorate the possible relocation of one said brother…and to cover the possibility of a vacant seat at the Thanksgiving table, which is just downright sad.

“Come to my house Sunday at 1:00,” came the announcement from my sister, Laura.

“Okay,” I say…never one to turn down an afternoon of food, drink and merriment.

“What are you bringing?” she then asks.

“Uh,” I respond.

“What about bread?” she asks…stating the obvious.

“Oh, sure…and how about garlic mashed potatoes?” I add, wincing the second the words leave my mouth.

For I do not know how to make garlic mashed potatoes.

But, how hard can it be?

I awoke extra early to combine the ingredients necessary to accommodate the bread maker…as it required a whopping 3 hours and 40 minutes to create “Rustic Italian bread”.“Geez. Why so long?” I say to the dog, who is the only one listening...and even he seems bored. (How spoiled am I? This machine mixes, kneads, times and allows it to rise and then bakes the bread all on its own and I’ve still got da nerve to whine….yes, I do.)

And so, with a heavy sigh I push “start” and walk out of the room.

I am so impressed with my planned gastronomic contribution that I text Jack to share:

K: “JACK! I m goig 2 sisters 4 foud cuking breed & garl c mashd pots!”

A few seconds later, I hear the chime of his reply:

J: “What?”

K: “makg garlc mas shd potaatoos & braded.”

Ding!

J: “What a surprise. You’re making bread.”

K: “NOTFUNY. Ho doou makit !Hury.”

At this, my cell starts to ring.

Jack: “You are the WORST texter EVER.”

Me: “Thank you. How do I make garlic mashed potatoes?”

J: “You’re kidding, right?”

K: “Do I sound like I’m kidding? I have no time for this. I’ve been baking the potatoes in foil at three hundred and seventy-five degrees for almost an hour now and I think they’re almost done and I’ve got the bread baking and I’m extremely stressed here and just tell me what to do.”

J: “How many?”

K: “How many what?”

J: “How many potatoes did you make? And why did you bake them?”

K: “What?! You’re starting to freak me out. What difference does it make how many there are? How many come in a bag? That’s how many I made. And what do you mean ‘why did I bake them’? I don’t know any other way to make them! Are you gonna help me or not?!”

J: “Kathryn, this is not a nuclear crisis. Just add some cream and butter and you’re done.”

K: “What? Cream?! Does it have to be cream? Can’t I use milk?”

J: “Yeah…sure…milk…whatever. Just eyeball it. You can do this.”

I was not as confident in my capabilities, but decided to plow ahead anyway, as Jack seemed done with me. So, with Metro parked precariously underfoot (no doubt in hopes of catching any stray potato pieces) I began unwrapping boiling hot potatoes from foil. With masterfully-surgical-precision, I then initiated the process of removing the skins from many (nay, possibly hundreds) of potatoes. I then did some serious smushing, (I know “Word” says this is not a word…but it is one if I say it’s one)…and added milk and nuked butter…all the while, trying not to turn it into a replay of my last attempt where I wound up with lukewarm mashed potato soup.

It wasn’t until I proclaimed us incredibly late but ready to head out the door that I realized that I’d completely forgotten about adding the garlic. In my haste to smush, mix, dice and expertly fold said garlic into said potatoes, I may have errantly lost my grip on the extra-large-jumbo-sized spoon…

…and THAT, your honor, is how I became Miss Mashed Potato Pants.