Easter Sunday was strange. I usually go to my office-mate's home for Easter dinner. This year her invitation was late and came after I had already accepted one from Virgil's family. I was happy to not drive 40 miles to Eileen's house in Easter Sunday and highway construction traffic but was sorry to break a tradition of at least ten years.
While I never arrive empty-handed, I knew that there would be a request to prepare something. I was surprised when asked to make mashed potatoes. I'm not particularly noted for my mashed potatoes but off to the market I went to buy sufficent russets for a party of 15. Everything went well - until I assembled my little, hand-held mixer and turned it on. The housing for the beaters disintegrated. After picking plastic pieces out of the spuds, I hauled out a masher - the old-fashioned hand tool and got a good start but knew that the end product would be lumpy. So, I employed a small, electric chopper/blender unit that required at least 12 fill-ups before my casserole dish was full. The flavor was great; the appearence was distinctive. Those potatoes were dense and flat and smooth like velvet. An accusation of "fluffy" would never stand.
Dinnertime was supposed to be at 5:30 - a little late for an Easter Sunday dinner but it worked for me. Then, Noel called to say that the serving time was moved to 4:30. Not a problem; I adjusted my schedule. The third call came at 3:10. Everyone would be eating at 3:30. Because I had glanced at a clock that had not been forwarded by an hour to accommodate Daylight Savings Time, I thought that that would be fine, too. When I realized my mistake, I phoned to ask if Virgil's son could pick up the potatoes that were ready because I was not. His mother told me that he was eating. I hurried up and arrived, with potatoes in hand, to a group of 14 who were either enjoying dinner or had already finished. The potatoes were a course in themselves - post entrees' and side dishes. The whole business was strange. I had a good time, enjoyed a feast and lively conversation.
Posted by leah at April 27, 2006 03:27 PM"It's always something" as my dad says. He also says, "if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." I actually prefer using a hand masher to make mashed potatos (though for a group of 15 I probably would use the kitchen aide) and Elizabeth gets excellent results with her potato ricer.
How bizare that the dinner time kept changing! I'm glad you ultimately had a good time. And how wonderfully eclectic to have a separate course just for mashed potatos - I think you've found your new tradition for the next 10 years or so.
Posted by: Jenny on April 27, 2006 11:22 PMHow frustrating! I'm sure I would have uttered several choice words when I was trying to make the potatoes! And agree it is strange that the dinner kept moving - was there ever any explanation why?
Posted by: Cynthia on April 28, 2006 05:55 AMThere was no explanation. It was just too strange.
Posted by: Leah on April 28, 2006 02:42 PM