Mashed Potatoes

I was sitting in her kitchen, trying not to drool over the stew cooking on the stove. She had already told me when couldn't eat until her mom got home, and after flipping through a Home magazine packed full of tasty looking reciepies that my mom would never make, I was about to fall on the floor in starvation.

She was complaining because there were no potatoes. To say she loved potatoes was an understatement; unless they were present at this meal, she would not be satisified. So while I worked on some math homework she skinned and sliced up a few potatoes, throwing them in a pot of water on the stove next to the stew.

Then she forgot about them and we found ourselves trying to decide what to do with the slightly overdone potatoes. She placed half of them in a bowl and started to mash them with a spoon, saying we could have mashed potatoes. Me, in my infinite wisdom was positive that you had to put milk in mashed potatoes, though I didn't know how to actually make them. So we poured some milk into a cup, sliced off a cunk of butter and stuck it in the mircrowave. When it was done we poured that in and dumped in an ungodly amount of garlic salt.

I found the second pot of potatoes and started to mash them.

"No don't mash those!"

I mashed her diced potatoes.

And we laughed so hard we cried and for so long we forgot how to breathe.