The Great Potato Disaster

Despite the fact that I have already written today lamenting about how difficult it is to be a housewife, I have settled in this Monday evening with my Sam Adams Seasonal Lager to share a specific example of just how hard being a housewife really is. Late last week, one of my mom's best friends (Marissa- mother to Maggie) texted me that she had a recipe she wanted to send me. I eagerly sent her my e-mail address and she forwarded me a recipe for a baked potato casserole. The casserole called for potatoes, bacon, cheese and cream cheese so I know you are sitting behind whatever electronic device you are reading this post on wondering what in the world can go wrong making a casserole with those ingredients?

Well, let me be the first to tell you, lots.

 I got off work and stopped at our friendly neighborhood Publix (I generally refuse to stop at Publix on Monday afternoons but because we sat by the pool for just a little bit too long yesterday, we didn't make it last night as is our usual Sunday night ritual). The recipe called for boxed mashed potatoes, a rotisserie chicken and frozen broccoli. Because my husband makes killer mashed potatoes and we have a freezer full of chicken that I stocked up on when it was the rare $2.99 a pound, I decided to go for overachiever status (I should have thought back to the Chocolate Cupcake Debacle, but how quickly we forget). Looking back, I think Marissa probably sent me the recipe because it was supposed to be QUICK and EASY, but I missed that memo. I gathered my ingredients, braved the 31 traffic and arrived home just before Kevin. I unloaded the groceries and compiled all the ingredients and put the water on to boil the potatoes. Now if you have ever observed me in the kitchen, it is not a sight for the faint of heart. I always have ten different things going on and manage to trash the kitchen no matter how simple the dish I am making may be. So potatoes are in the water, chicken is in the skillet, and some how I manage to get all the vegetables chopped without burning the house down. I take the chicken out of the skillet and shred it while Kevin is "working" with Charles on learning his first command (more on this later), and perhaps this is where it all went sour.

I mentioned above that my husband makes killer mashed potatoes, yes that is right, my HUSBAND, not myself. If you know me at all, you know patience is not one of my strong suits. Since Kevin was with Charles and the chicken was shredded my slightly OCD self started to get a little antsy. I poked the potatoes with a fork. Still a little stiff. Paced around the kitchen for a few minutes, checked my Facebook, booted up my computer, you get the drill. Poked them again. Said to heck with it. I got the potatoes out and begin pounding on them with my handy dandy potato smasher, putting some serious effort into mashing those potatoes. Didn't work. Time to get serious. I get out the mixer. Pour in the milk and a hunk of butter. Turned the mixer on high and gave it a quick turbo boost. All this accomplished was spraying hot milk all over the kitchen and myself. At this point I started to get really frustrated. I grabbed handful of potatoes and put them in a microwave safe bowl. Chunk the bowl in the microwave in an effort to nuke the potatoes and force them into submission so I could beat them. Leave them in the microwave 2.5 minutes instead of the requisite 4. Take potatoes out of microwave and pour back in mixing bowl. Now potatoes are overcooked and still not of a proper consistency to mash.

This is the point at which my husband and dog walk in the door to a mess of mashed potatoes all over the walls and in my hair and still no dinner on the table. Seeing this as a turning point, I decided to forego the mashed potato casserole because it was just way too complicated. I defeatedly put two potatoes in the microwave and decide we will just make our own stuffed baked potatoes. I'm still feeling optimistic at this point and actually patting myself on the back for keeping my sense of humor throughout the incident. In my haste and probably a little bit because I am all puffed up being proud of myself, I forget to stab holes in the potatoes. About five minutes in, Kevin hears the sizzling and asks me if I poked holes in them. We fling open the microwave, seconds before the potatoes combust. Disaster diverted, husband to the rescue, Kevin pokes holes in the potatoes. Three minutes later, dinner is served.

Cooking lesson number 1: always follow the recipe!