Mashed, not whipped!

Mashed potatoes are one of the limited number of dishes I am truly comfortable making.

This wasn't always the case.

It always looked so easy when mom made them. Zip, splash, mash. They came out right every time.

The first time I made mashed potatoes for my extended family, I ended up in tears. It was Thanksgiving and I had been married for only a few months. I had made them a few times for Squeeze, but never on such a large scale.

I got cocky. It's true, though I'm ashamed to admit it. I ended up splashing too much milk into the pan. The result was more like buttery potato soup than mashed potatoes. I was devastated.

I've had nearly a quarter century of experience since then, and it has definitely become easier to get them right.

When I was discussing what I might bring to the office holiday potluck the other day, I jokingly suggested that I could bring mashed potatoes. I was surprised at the enthusiastic response my coworkers gave the suggestion.

I watched, bemused, as they decided that I should definitely bring gravy with the mashed potatoes. They didn't care what type, or that I planned to buy it canned, as long as they had the chance to pour it over homemade spuds.

To my knowledge, I have never made this dish for them. They had no idea whether I could make it competently. In fact, they had every reason to suspect a disaster considering how often I complain that I hate to cook, that I'm not good at it, and that I avoid cooking whenever possible. They were unreasonably excited about having this at the potluck.

It was hard to deny such enthusiasm, and I found myself agreeing to make them.

While Squeeze and Chill made dinner for us last night, I washed, peeled, cubed, salted and boiled. I made enough to fill a three-quart slow cooker to the top and still had leftovers. I don't normally make such large batches, so, remembering my Thanksgiving fiasco, I was very cautious when adding the salt, butter, and milk. I mashed and tasted, adjusted, mashed, and tasted again until I was, well, not exactly ecstatic, but happy enough with the result that I was willing to serve it to my friends, and eat it myself.

I admit that I was a little nervous. I'm much more confident about my baking than my cooking.

They turned out fine. The potluck was great.

As I was planning to leave for the day, three different coworkers asked if I would leave the leftovers for tomorrow. I agreed that I would.

“Your mashed potatoes were really good.”

Thank you.

“They were so fluffy. What did you do to make them fluffy?”

Nothing special. I just mashed them.

“They were so flavorful. What was in them? Did you use chicken broth?”

No. Just potatoes, milk, butter and salt.

“So how did you get them so fluffy?”

I just mashed them.

“But they were so light and smooth. You didn't do it by hand, did you?”

Yes, I did them by hand.

“Didn't that make your arm feel like it was going to fall off?”

A little.

“And you didn't use a mixer?”

No! You don't use a mixer on mashed potatoes! That's just wrong! It makes them all gluey and stiff.

It turns out that I have strong opinions about my mashed potatoes.

I stopped right then and told them exactly how I make them. Just in case you are interested, I'll tell you too.

Everyday Mashed Potatoes

one medium russet potato per person

butter

milk

salt

pepper (optional)

Wash and peel the potatoes. I once scared my father-in-law within an inch of his life when he saw me peeling potatoes with a knife and cutting them in my hand instead of using a vegetable peeler and a cutting board.

I do it the way I was taught. You should probably use safer methods.

Cube the peeled potatoes as preferred. I use 1-2 inch pieces. The smaller the pieces, the faster they'll mash. Place the cubed potatoes in a pot that gives you at least half an inch of space after you cover the potatoes with cold water. My mother always gives the potatoes an extra rinse before cooking. I finally asked her why, and she said that she can't stand the look of the ones that have been exposed to the air too long, and that rinsing them makes her feel better.

Scatter salt over the water-covered potatoes. I never measure this. I just shake the big cannister until the amount feels right. I think the potatoes taste better when they are salted before cooking. (Less is better if you're new to this. You can always add more once they are cooked until you feel able to gauge it to your liking.)

Boil the salted potatoes until they break apart when you stir them. The water should be littered with potato bits.

Remove from the burner and drain the water from the pot. You can use a strainer for this, but it's quicker to just tip the lid a bit and hold it in place to catch the potatoes while you dump the water. If you're new to this, you might want some hot mitts to protect you from the steam, and if you wear glasses, don't expect to be able to see what you're doing if you lean over the draining pot.

If you haven't tipped them all into the sink, you are now ready to mash.

Forget those zig-zag wire mashers. Use a potato ricer. These have a sturdy handle attached to a perforated plate, through which you must pass your carbohydrate treat.

I always add butter before I start mashing. It lubricates things and makes the mashing easier. Plus, it makes them taste good. Go ahead and add some. More than that. A little more. Oh, just dump in a big wad and get it over with!

That's better. Now mash the butter into the potatoes. You don't want to be able to see the shape of the original cubed pieces. The mixture will be stiff at this point.

It's time to splash in some milk. Pour a little over the top - not too much – and mash again. Make sure that the milk gets evenly incorporated.

Monitor the texture as you mash. As long as they don't get too soupy you can add more butter or milk to adjust. Taste them to see how you've done. Add salt and pepper to taste. Eventually you will find the combination that works best for your taste.

Congratulations! You have achieved mashed potatoes. Eat and enjoy.

Get Into the Spirit of the Season

“The war is on.”

These words greeted me as I arrived at work this morning. My friend gestured across the waiting room to the front counter of a neighboring office.

“With them.”

I wondered what had happened after I left yesterday. Whatever it was wasn't evident to my untutored eyes as I looked across the lobby. My cluelessness must have been broadcasting loud and clear, because my friend took pity on my puzzled self and elaborated.

“Everything was fine until they put up lights.”

I peered at their counter. Festive holiday lights wrapped with sparkly garland festooned their windows. I looked at the pile of Christmas stockings and the poinsettias my friend had spread in front of her on the desk and it finally clicked.

The decor war was on.

It started innocently enough several years ago. They hung a wreath on the wall behind reception. We had little decorations on our check-out counter. They put up a Christmas tree on their shared work space. We hung garland. They put out knick-knacks. We bemoaned the lack of a decorating budget. This year our receptionist strung mini lights around our window.

They threw down the gauntlet when they added lights around their window last night.

Today our militant decorators added the plants to the reception counter, put a bow on the sliding glass divider, and hung stockings for each of us on one of the doors.

Will I come in tomorrow to find the door blocked by one of those giant snow globes or a dancing Santa? Perhaps there will be a herd of twinkling reindeer lined up down the hallway or animatronic elves making toys in the corners. I know for certain that one of my coworkers has a train set that he would love to mount on the walls near the ceiling.

If they bring in Santa and try to make me sit on his lap I'm going to run away until after the New Year.

The fog is lifting

My father died in late September, two weeks before what would have been my parents' 50^th wedding anniversary.

When I was a child, my dad was the mostly silent presence in the recliner at the end of the room every evening. He was the keeper of the belt that was occasionally threatened, but rarely used. He was the builder of stilts, the cranker of ice cream, the by-hand cracker of walnuts, the ultimate master of the pocket knife, who sharpened his square pencils without fear or hesitation.

When he did speak, it was because he had something important to contribute. He didn't spend words on idle chit chat. He kept watch over me while I watched him build cabinets and houses, guiding my hand on the hammer when I decided he needed a six-year-old's help. He sat behind each of his grandchildren on the lawn tractor so that they could drive it. For hours. Even when the grass didn't need to be mowed.

A couple of years ago, he was diagnosed with depression. The antidepressant he was prescribed brought out a father I had never known. This dad cracked jokes, snuck up on mom for stealth hugs, and sat with me on the porch for hours talking about life. This was dad projected in full color and surround sound. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

I am grateful that I had a chance to get to know him better, that we had time to watch deer nibble on fallen pears while we talked about the world. I am grateful that I had a chance to see the mischievous glint that always resided in his eyes brought to full expression.

We knew his death was coming, but I wasn't ready.

I had grieved before for more distant family members, but I was in no way prepared for the intensity of my anticipatory grief as his illness reached its last stages. Nor did I expect the lingering sadness that has clouded my days since his actual death.

I had always thought that grief was something that hit hard, then steadily faded, leaving one able to remember the loved one without such an intense feeling of loss. It certainly hasn't been a steady process for me. It's taking so much longer than I ever expected, and the feelings crest and crash like waves.

I still go about my life. I work. I play. I spend too much time on the computer.

It's just that all these things take place a a slight remove. There is a feeling of distance, a detachment from daily routine. It's like watching my life happen through a dense fog.

Some things are beginning to register with greater intensity: the sharp smell of a freshly picked lemon, the comforting warmth of a throw blanket on a chilly evening, the sound of shared laughter.

I feel like I am waking from a deep sleep, or coming home from a long journey. These small joys are reminders that somewhere the sun still shines, that birds still sing, and that the fog will lift eventually.

Bowing to Defeat

Two nights ago, my allergy medicine made its first attempt at escape. Last night it tried again. Tonight, it finally succeeded.

This is the story of how my significant other – I'll call him Squeeze – found me on the bathroom floor with my pajama-clad bottom waving in the air, laughing myself silly.

I don't know why, after so many years of taking pills without drama of any sort, this has suddenly become a problem. I have a routine that works.

I suppose that sentence should be in the past tense now. Let me start over.

I have a ritual for taking my pills:

• I reach into the medicine cabinet and grab my bottle of allergy pills. I shake one out and hold it in one hand while I replace the lid. The hand holding the pill is also manipulating the lid. Keep this in mind.
  
• While still holding the allergy pill, I open the bottle of multivitamins and separate one from the herd into the hand that is still holding the allergy pill.
• I repeat the procedure with flax seed oil capsules.
  

I like to gather my pills from smallest to largest. It feels wrong to collect them in the other direction.

What? Haven't you ever developed a slightly compulsive habit?

Once all of my pills are in my hand, I take a sip of water and swallow them all at the same time. I am then free to move on to my nasal sprays.

I find comfort in my routine. It works for me. The repetition is almost soothing, part of how I wind down before bed.

At least, it had been.

When I went to put the lid back on the flax capsules two nights ago, my allergy pill slid out of my hand and into the over-sized bottle of capsules that was still nearly full. I sighed and set the two loyal pills on the counter.

I glared at the huge bottle full of dark horse-pill sized capsules. The tiny allergy pill was nowhere to be seen. There was no way I was going to dump everything out and sort through it.

"Ha!" I thought. "I'll just turn the bottle upside-down and shake it until the allergy pill makes its way to the cap." I envisioned picking the little bugger out of the cap and heading off to my reward of a sound night of sleep.

I screwed the lid back on and proceeded to shake, jolt, and wiggle the bottle. In a very short time I was rewarded with the plink of the harder allergy pill striking the cap. Victory!

I carefully unscrewed the cap, bottle still inverted, and peered at what was sitting there. Sure enough, my wayward pill was there, lurking amid giants. I tipped the bottle over, letting as many capsules as possible slide back in, and proceeded to remove the remaining pile back into the bottle until I had cleared enough space to get my finger on the escapee, at which time I decided to tip the remaining capsules back into their jar.

Not such a great idea. The pill shot out from under my finger and back into the bottle. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I actually uttered a Homer Simpson noise.

I was not going to admit defeat. Perhaps I had been a little careless, a little foolish in thinking I could keep the pill pressed against the cap. After all, it had already escaped once.

With renewed determination I took the cap out of the action. I repeated my earlier performance with my hand over the mouth of the bottle, no doubt looking like I was making the world's worst martini. Eventually the pill worked its way into the palm of my hand. This time I kept it.

Last night my allergy pill escaped to the counter top. I guess since the bottle of capsules had proved ineffective camouflage it decided to try an alternate escape route. I am proud to say that I tracked it down with no complications.

Tonight though, was an entirely different story.

This time the pill made it off the counter and into the narrow space between the vanity and the shower stall. It's a very small area that is impossible to reach with the human hand. The floor there is slowly being overtaken by the dust bunny alliance, which attempted unsuccessfully to provide cover for my errant pill.

I admit that going after the pill with a broom would have been a much more rational choice than trying to scoot it out with the tip of a comb, but in the heat of the moment I could only think to grab the nearest tool that would fit.

It took me several minutes of work down on the ground on my elbows and knees, but I managed to maneuver the pill almost within reach of my fingers. One more tap should have brought it in range. It was nestled right up against the tiles of the shower stall. If I hit it... just... so...

I stared at the blank stretch of tile running from my nose to the far wall.

Wait just a minute. I didn't tap it that hard! I pulled up the bath mat – no pill. I searched on the carpet. Nothing. I looked back into the crevice. Nope. That sucker had disappeared.

I stared in shock for a moment. After all, there was no way that a pill, no matter how wily, could have actually vanished. Was there?

No, no! I shook my head, trying to get a grip. I searched the dust bunny canyon again, scrutinizing every inch.

Aha! One of the vertical tiles did not have grout sealing it to the floor. I had located the escape route, but my happiness at this discovery was very short lived as there was no hope for recovery beyond that point.

I nodded my head, conceding defeat. The pill had made good its escape. I vowed that its brothers would not be so lucky.

I caught myself before I started shaking my fist and vowing vengeance. How did I become the evil villain to my medication? I'm supposed to be the good guy! I burst out laughing, head on the floor, ass in the air.

“Um, should I ask?” Squeeze stepped into the room. I'll tell him tomorrow.