Mashed Potatoes Quotes

There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

So? What are you going to do about it? Throw your mashed potatoes at me? I'm consumed by terror.

Carter, not to be unkind," I said, "but the last few months you've been seeing messages about Zia everywhere. Two weeks ago, you thought she was sending you a distress call in your mashed potatoes." "It was a Z! Carved right in the potatoes!

I saw him do a No More Potatoes Dance, after he saw me stuff the last of the mashed potatoes in my pocket.


How can a society that exists on instant mashed potatoes, packaged cake mixes, frozen dinners, and instant cameras teach patience to its young?

I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet. "You’re like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield." She froze in place. Then she spun on me, her face lit by a half-grown fruit. “A potato,” she said flatly. “That’s the best you can do? Seriously?” “It makes sense,” I said. “Listen. You’re strolling through a minefield, worried about getting blown up. And then you step on something, and you think, ‘I’m dead.’ But it’s just a potato. And you’re so relieved to find something so wonderful when you expected something so awful. That’s what you are. To me.” “A potato.” “Sure. French fries? Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like potatoes?” “Plenty of people. Why can’t I be something sweet, like a cake?” “Because cake wouldn’t grow in a minefield. Obviously.” She stared down the hallway at me for a few moments, then sat on an overgrown set of roots. Sparks. She seemed to be crying. Idiot! I thought at myself, scrambling through the foliage. Romantic. You were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren’t romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.

They should make bubblegum that tastes like mashed potatoes. You know, for lovers.

... Once I start a book I finish it. That was the way one was brought up. Books, bread and butter, mashed potato - one finishes what's on one's plate. That's always been my philosophy.

I wondered what you'd have on the side with a plate of Deep Fried Anxiety. Pickles? Coleslaw? Potato-strychnine mash?

Shakespeare is like mashed potatoes, you can never get enough of him.

If you mix the mashed potatoes and sauce, you can't separate them later. It's forever. The smoke comes out of Daddy's cigarette, but it never goes back in. We cannot go back. That's why it's hard to choose. You have to make the right choice. As long as you don't choose, everything remains possible.

Well, what did you have for lunch?” I snapped. “Surely that’s not top secret superhero information.” “Steak with mashed potatoes and a side salad,” Striker replied. “And a piece of chocolate cheesecake for dessert.” I gave up on conversation after that. I was too jealous of the cheesecake to continue.

Vane passed the mashed potatoes across Bride to Fury, who stared at them with a fierce frown "What are these?" he asked. "Potatoes," Vane told him. "What did they do to them?

. . . Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow. Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you're Count Dracula. Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK? Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow.

And if you worry that not finishing the food on your plate is a slap in the face of all the hungry people everywhere, you are not living in reality. The truth is that you either throw the food out or you throw it in, but either way it turns to waste. World hunger will not be solved by finishing the garlic mashed potatoes on your plate.

Don’t tell me you’re going to eat a mashed-potato sandwich

Lord, I can’t live in his mashed potato world. I need my tubers scalloped and diced and baked and fried and different every time. I need excitement and change as much as I need air.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

Mashed potato is the gentile's chicken soup. It's nature's tranquilizer. I take it instead of valium.

Dad always said a person must have a magnificent reason for writing out his or her Life Story and expecting anyone to read it. Unless your name is something along the lines of Mozart, Matisse, Churchill, Che Guevara or Bond - James Bond - you best spent your free time finger painting or playing shuffeboard, for no one, with the exception of your flabby-armed mother with stiff hair and a mashed potato way of looking at you, will want to hear the particulars of your pitiable existence, which doubtlessly will end as it began - with a wheeze.

In the end, I always want potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Nothing like mashed potatoes when you’re feeling blue. Nothing like getting into bed with a bowl of hot mashed potatoes already loaded with butter, and methodically adding a thin cold slice of butter to every forkful. The problem with mashed potatoes, though, is that they require almost as much hard work as crisp potatoes, and when you’re feeling blue the last thing you feel like is hard work. Of course, you can always get someone to make the mashed potatoes for you, but let’s face it: the reason you’re blue is that there isn’t anyone to make them for you.

Use your fork.” “No.” “Gavin, I swear to god, if you—don’t do it. Don’t pick the mashed potatoes up again with your hand.” He stared at me as he did it anyway. Making sure I was watching, he shoved the food into his mouth again.

I missed the anonymity-the ability to run to the market without running into my third-grade teacher. I missed the nightlife-the knowledge that if I wanted to, there was always an occasion to get dressed up and head out for dinner and drinks. I missed the restaurants-the Asian, the Thai, the Italian the Indian. I was already tired of mashed potatoes and canned green beans. I missed the culture- the security that comes from being on the touring schedule of the major Broadway musicals. I missed the shopping-the funky boutiques, the eclectic shops, the browsing. I missed the city.

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They could see how love might control you, from your head to your toes, not to mention every single part of you in between. A woman could want a man so much she might vomit in the kitchen sink or cry so fiercly blood would form in the corners of her eyes. She put her hand to her throat as though someone were strangling her, but really she was choking on all that love she thought she’d needed so badly. What had she thought, that love was a toy, something easy and sweet, just to play with? Real love was dangerous, it got you from inside and held on tight, and if you didn’t let go fast enough you might be willing to do anything for it’s sake. She refused to believe in superstition, she wouldn’t; yet it was claiming her. Some fates are guaranteed, no matter who tries to intervene. After all I’ve done for you is lodged somewhere in her brain, and far worse, it’s in her heart as well. She was bad luck, ill-fated and unfortunate as the plague. She is not worth his devotion. She wishes he would evaporate into thin air. Maybe then she wouldn’t have this feeling deep inside, a feeling she can deny all she wants, but that won’t stop it from being desire. Love is worth the sum of itself and nothing more. But that’s what happens when you’re a liar, especially when you’re telling the worst of these lies to yourself. He has stumbled into love, and now he’s stuck there. He’s fairly used to not getting what he wants, and he’s dealt with it, yet he can’t help but wonder if that’s only because he didn’t want anything so badly. It’s music, it’s a sound that is absurdly beautiful in his mouth, but she won’t pay attention. She knows from the time she spent on the back stairs of the aunts’ house that most things men say are lies. Don’t listen, she tells herself. None if it’s true and none of it matters, because he’s whispering that he’s been looking for her forever. She can’t believe it. She can’t listen to anything he tells her and she certainly can’t think, because if she did she might just think she’d better stop. What good would it do her to get involved with someone like him? She’d have to feel so much, and she’s not that kind. The greatest portion of grief is the one you dish out for yourself. She preferred cats to human beings and turned down every offer from the men who fell in love with her. They told her how sticks and stones could break bones, but taunting and name-calling were only for fools. — & now here she is, all used up. Although she’d never believe it, those lines in *’s face are the most beautiful part about her. They reveal what she’s gone through and what she’s survived and who exactly she is, deep inside. She’s gotten back some of what she’s lost. Attraction, she now understands, is a state of mind. If there’s one thing * is now certain of, it’s house you can amaze yourself by the things you’re willing to do. You really don’t know? That heart-attack thing you’ve been having? It’s love, that’s what it feels like. She knows now that when you don’t lose yourself in the bargain, you find you have double the love you started with, and that’s one recipe that can’t be tampered with. Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

I think," said my neighbour, her chin very high in the air (and still spiffed, I am glad to say) "that women who've never married and never had children have missed out on the central experiences of life. They are emotionally crippled." Now what am I supposed to say to that? I ask you. That women who've never won the Nobel Peace Prize have also experienced a serious deprivation? It's like taking candy from a baby; the poor thing isn't allowed to get angry, only catty. I said, "That's rude, and silly," and helped her to mashed potatoes. ...."You can't catch a man." "That's why I'll never be abandoned," said I. Fortunately she did not hear me. Did I say taking candy from babies? Rather, eating babies, killing babies, abandoning babies. So sad, so easy.

Orgasmic garlic mashed potatoes

I feel like a potato that's recently been mashed,"she said.

Maybe then they’d leave me the fuck alone in the corner with my turkey and my mashed potatoes and my phone.

My mashed potatoes come with a masturbation sound you pour on top, like gravy. I got the recipe from Pee Wee Herman.

The fork fell from my fingers, splatterng mashed potatoes across the table. I mustered my best "ice princess" look at met his gaze. "You're in my personal space, buddy.

A slice of chocolate cake - priorities! - a scoop of chicken potpie, slice of chocolate cake, scoop of yam casserole, slice of chocolate cake, two scoops of mashed potatoes, a slice of chocolate cake, a scoop of buttery green beens, a slice of chocolate cake -

The lamp on the side table illuminates his half-eaten dinner, now decorated with a fat winter fly bogged down in the mashed potatoes. It’s still struggling a little, threadlike legs pushing against gravy.

Well,” I say, “I once saw a show about a guy who bludgeoned his mother to death in the kitchen and then cooked a full meal of pot roast and mashed potatoes, so anything is possible.” “Iris,” Alice says wearily. “You seem like such a nice person and her your brain is full of horrible things.

I heard the opening bar of 'Help' as I headed down Polk Street. Every single time I've heard that tune I've taken it as some message from God, a warning of things to come, a perfect description of my mashed-potato character

After Father had served the chicken and mashed potatoes and peas and Mother had passed the hot rolls, Beezus decidedthe time had come to tell Aunt Beatrice about being Sacajawea. "Do you know what I did last week?" she began. "I want some jelly," said Ramona "You mean, 'Please pass the jelly,' "corrected Mother while Beezus waited patiently. 'No, what did you do last week?" asked Aunt Beatrice. "Well, last week I-" Beezus began again. " like purple jelly better then red jelly," said Ramona. ' Ramona , stop interrupting your sister," said Father. "Well, Ido like purple jelly better then red jelly," insisted Ramona."Never mind," said Mother. "Go no, Beezus." Last week-" said Beezus, looking at her aunt, who smiled as if she understood."Excuse me, Beezus," Mother cut in. "Ramona, we do not put jelly on our mashed potatoes." "I like jelly on my mashed potatoes."Ramona stirred potato and jelly aroud with her fork. "Ramona you heard what your mother said." Father looked stern. "If I can ut butter on my mashed potateos, why can't I put jelly? I put butter and jelly on toast," said Ramona. Father couldn't help laughing. "That's a hard question to answer." "But Mother-" Beezus began."I like jelly on my mashed potateos," interrupted Ramona, looking sulky.

Try the tenderloin. It's fucking awesome. And the lamb, too. Oh, and the mashed potatoes. Skip the salad. Waste of chewing.

At the potluck, I brought two dishes: knowledge and mashed potatoes and gravy. Guess which one got cleaned out and which one hardly got touched.

A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake.

I don't like questions at all if they are anything like how I like my mashed potatoes: loaded.

So what do we do?" "We do what all families do. Grin, bear it, and pass the mashed potatoes.

Aaah, ’at’s be’er,’ said Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato.

Miss Edi: My brother Bertrand is the laziest person in the world. David: Oh yeah? And how lazy is that? Miss Edi: When he was three and saw all his gifts under the Christmas tree, he said, 'Who's going to open them for me?' David: I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was six, my father bought him a bicycle and took him out to teach him to ride it. David: And? Miss Edi: Bertrand did very well. My father ran along behind him, holding on, and my brother balanced perfectly. But when my father let go and the bicycle stopped, Bertrand asked why. When my father said he had to push on the pedals, my brother left it lying there in the street, and he never got on a bicycle again. David: Not bad, but I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was twelve, my parents took us out to a restaurant, the first one we'd ever been to, and my father ordered steaks for each of us. When my brother's came, he looked at it and asked how he was to eat it. My father showed him how to cut the steak, then how to chew it. My brother called the waiter back and ordered a bowl of mashed potatoes. David: Okay, that's getting up there, but I have heard a few worse. Miss Edi: When he was sixteen, my mother arranged for her beloved son to go to a dance with a very nice young girl. He was to pick her up at six pm. At six-thirty Bertrand was sitting in the living room and my father asked him why he hadn't gone on his date. My brother said, 'Because she hasn't come to get me yet.

The rest of the family tree had a root system soggy with alcohol... One aunt had fallen asleep with her face in the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving dinner; another's fondness for Coors was so unwavering that I can still remember the musky smell of the beer and the coldness of the cans. Most of the men drank the way all Texas men drank, or so I believed, which meant that they were tough guys who could hold their liquor until they couldn't anymore--a capacity that often led to some cloudy version of doom, be it financial ruin or suicide or the lesser betrayal of simple estrangement. Both social drinkers, my parents had eluded these tragic endings; in the postwar Texas of suburbs and cocktails, their drinking was routine but undramatic.

To cut a long story short, coaching by Charlotte and Mr. Giordano was even worse than I’d expected. That was mainly because they were trying to teach me everything at the same time. While I was struggling to learn the steps of the minuet (rigged out in a hooped skirt with cherry-red stripes, not very chic worn with my school uniform blouse, which was the color of mashed potato), I was also supposed to be learning how greatly the political opinions of the Whigs and the Tories differed, how to hold a fan, and the difference between “Your Highness,” “Your Royal Highness,” “Your Serene Highness,” and even “Your Illustrious Highness.” After only an hour plus seventeen different ways of opening a fan, I had a splitting headache, and I couldn’t tell left from right. My attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a little joke—“Couldn’t we stop for a rest? I’m totally, serenely, illustriously exhausted”—went down like a lead balloon. “This is not funny,” said Giordano in nasal tones. “Stupid girl.

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last!

Evangeline mashed the potatoes with excessive force. She could work out her frustration over Logan's obstinance and produce silky smooth potatoes at the same time. Benefits all around.

My legs have the strength of mashed potatoes. I'm cold and clammy and my stomach churns like I vomited. That's because I did, in the viewing room, and I discovered that yellow bile does not blend well with red velvet industrial carpeting. My crowning achievement in overreaction.

I was almost tempted to ask my parents to fry some chicken and mash some potatoes and grill some corn on the cob, but that would've only stopped Arthur from discovering more about me. The little things that form the bigger picture.

When all’s said and done they’re a strange breed, these South and East Londoners, and they’re amused by little things. Their love of jellied eels and pie ‘n’ mash is astonishing. “Food of the Gods,” they call it, as they enter some filthy hovel to order pie ‘n’ mash, without even knowing what they’re eating. I’ve asked what meat it is and been told, “Meat? Its pie, pie ‘n’ mash with liquor. Food of the Gods.” But it’s not food of the Gods at all. It’s just pie and mashed potatoes, and that’s it. Nothing special about it. There’s nothing nostalgic about it. It’s not Bermondsey Billy Wells or the Artful Dodger. It’s just a meat pie and mashed potatoes. And it looks like Barry Manilow’s blown his nose in it.

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Uncommon Prostitues I have nothing to say about prostitues (other than you'd make a terrible prostitute,the profession is much too unclean), I only wanted to type that. Isn't it odd we both have to spend Christmas with our fathers? Speaking of unpleasant matters,have you spoken with Bridge yet? I'm taking the bus to the hospital now.I expect a full breakdown of your Christmas dinner when I return. So far today,I've had a bowl of muesli. How does Mum eat that rubbish? I feel as if I've been gnawing on lumber. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Christmas Dinner MUESLY? It's Christmas,and you're eating CEREAL?? I'm mentally sending you a plate from my house. The turkey is in the oven,the gravy's on the stovetop,and the mashed potatoes and casseroles are being prepared as I type this. Wait. I bet you eat bread pudding and mince pies or something,don't you? Well, I'm mentally sending you bread pudding. Whatever that is. No, I haven't talked to Bridgette.Mom keeps bugging me to answer her calls,but winter break sucks enough already. (WHY is my dad here? SERIOUSLY. MAKE HIM LEAVE. He's wearing this giant white cable-knit sweater,and he looks like a pompous snowman,and he keeps rearranging the stuff on our kitchen cabinets. Mom is about to kill him. WHICH IS WHY SHE SHOULDN'T INVITE HIM OVER FOR HOLIDAYS). Anyway.I'd rather not add to the drama. P.S. I hope your mom is doing better. I'm so sorry you have to spend today in a hospital. I really do wish I could send you both a plate of turkey. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Re: Christmas Dinner YOU feel sorry for ME? I am not the one who has never tasted bread pudding. The hospital was the same. I won't bore you with the details. Though I had to wait an hour to catch the bus back,and it started raining.Now that I'm at the flat, my father has left for the hospital. We're each making stellar work of pretending the other doesn't exist. P.S. Mum says to tell you "Merry Christmas." So Merry Christmas from my mum, but Happy Christmas from me. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: SAVE ME Worst.Dinner.Ever.It took less than five minutes for things to explode. My dad tried to force Seany to eat the green bean casserole, and when he wouldn't, Dad accused Mom of not feeding my brother enough vegetables. So she threw down her fork,and said that Dad had no right to tell her how to raise her children. And then he brought out the "I'm their father" crap, and she brought out the "You abandoned them" crap,and meanwhile, the WHOLE TIME my half-dead Nanna is shouting, "WHERE'S THE SALT! I CAN'T TASTE THE CASSEROLE! PASS THE SALT!" And then Granddad complained that Mom's turkey was "a wee dry," and she lost it. I mean,Mom just started screaming. And it freaked Seany out,and he ran to his room crying, and when I checked on him, he was UNWRAPPING A CANDY CANE!! I have no idea where it came from. He knows he can't eat Red Dye #40! So I grabbed it from him,and he cried harder, and Mom ran in and yelled at ME, like I'd given him the stupid thing. Not, "Thank you for saving my only son's life,Anna." And then Dad came in and the fighting resumed,and they didn't even notice that Seany was still sobbing. So I took him outside and fed him cookies,and now he's running aruond in circles,and my grandparents are still at the table, as if we're all going to sit back down and finish our meal. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FAMILY? And now Dad is knocking on my door. Great. Can this stupid holiday get any worse??

He mashed hundreds of cakes of GI soap into the sweet potatoes just to show that people have the taste of Philistines and don’t know the difference between good and bad.

Maura, you are a goddess. I will carve your likeness in mashed potatoes so all can worship you like I do. When you leave Philip, will you marry me?

I think all right. I hope so. What do we have for lunch?” “Little radishes, and good foie de veau with mashed potatoes and an endive salad. Apple tart.

Much to my delight, I found her panties to be full of mashed potatoes—but I had to supply all the gravy.

pony, mashed potato, alligator, watusi, twist, jerk.

 ‘I’m doing the Mashed Potatoes all over It AND I GOT A BROKEN ARM,

I sure wish deodorant tasted like butter, because then I could keep mashed potatoes warm and tasty in my armpits all day long.

I would stuff some freshly whipped warm mashed potatoes between his butt cheeks and lap them up like a thirsty dog. Slurp.

Even the beautiful mechanic, who Hai kept sneaking eyes at, pushed his plate of mashed potatoes aside to turn around, a smile eased across his lips.

To my dislike for mashed potatoes. May it be our biggest problem.

And I see red. The big tray of mashed potatoes is in my hands before I even realize what I’m doing. I heave it over the plastic sneeze guard, raining the entire load down on the advancing cop.

Boil potatoes before peeling If you love mashed potatoes like I do, but hate peeling spuds, then don’t.  Try this little trick instead.  Rinse the potatoes but don’t peel.  Boil them the appropriate time, and when they are done, drain the whole potatoes and put them into a bath of ice water.  The peel will come right off, grab potato with both hands and twist.  Watch the peel slip right off like magic.

I had a dream about you. You asked how long I’ve loved you, and I replied, “About 5,280 feet.” It was true. Ever since the car ran out of gas a mile back, and we were forced to walk, I’ve been thinking a lot about life, love, and how much I wish the first gas station we see has mashed-potato-flavored bubblegum.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

Conner, what did you write for dinner?" Alex asked. "Tomato soup, mashed potatoes, and rosary chicken," Conner said, and licked his lips. "Rosary chicken?" she asked. "Did you mean rotisserie chicken?" "Oh no," he said fearfully. Fish-Lips Lucy uncovered the largest serving tray, and rather than a delicious roasted chicken, she revealed a live chicken wearing a Catholic rosary. The chicken panicked and fluttered amok around the chambers, squawking loudly and shedding feathers whenever she went. Auburn Sally gave Fish-Lips Lucy a dirty look. "The chicken seems a little undercooked," she said. "Sorry, Captain," Fish-Lips Lucy said. "I knew I was forgetting something.

returned to the threshing machine. I helped clear the table, and when Mother and Grandma began to wash dishes in water heated on the stove, Mother said, “Beverly, never, never, serve mashed potatoes to threshers. They disappear too fast.” To her mother she said, “What will the men think of me, running out of potatoes like that?” “Why didn’t the cookhouse come?” I asked. Mother sighed. “Because we simply don’t have the money. Most farmers don’t this year.

Following my usual overreaction, I had filled it with mounds of mashed potatoes, boiled greens, curried lentils, chicken parmesan, and two types of cake. Recognizing a cycle and being able to stop said cycle are not the same thing.

I don't know if you suffer in the same way, but with me the act of talking in the nature of real mashed potatoes always induces a sort of prickly sensation and a hideous feeling of shame, together with a marked starting of the pores.

Fight It!” Eddie raved at the others. “It’s just a fucking Eye! Fight It! You hear me? Fight It, Bill! Kick the shit out of the sucker! Jesus Christ you fucking pussies I’m doing the Mashed Potatoes all over It AND I GOT A BROKEN ARM!

You always got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you got Brown Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the little kids in the lower school that didn’t know any better--and guys like Ackley that ate everything.

After menu meeting came a delicious family meal: fried chicken with honey pecan butter, mashed potatoes, coleslaw. As Adrienne slathered her fried chicken with butter she thought happily of all the money she would save on food this summer.

She planned to make a roast beef, a pile of mashed potatoes, corn- then mounted it into a bowl and drown it in gravy. Some people ate ice cream or pie when depressed; she went for the warm comfort food she learned to make in her grandma's kitchen.

I want two of the four piece fried chicken dinners.  Both with mashed potatoes and green beans.  I also want two orders of grilled corn on the cob and a side of macaroni salad.  Three slices of the banana cream pie and a piece of German chocolate cake.

Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot,” Macomber said, cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and carrot on the downturned fork that tined through the piece of meat.“I suppose I could,” she said, “since you put it so prettily.

Jessica was real mashed potatoes and butter. To me the rest of the women in the world would always be the equivalent of Hank’s mashed cauliflower, bland and unsatisfying. He might call it “heart healthy,” but the heart knows what it fucking wants, and it’s hardly ever cauliflower.

Give Me The Simple Life" I don't believe in frettin' and grievin' Why mess around with strife' I never was cut out to step and strut out Give me the simple life Some find it pleasant dining on pheasant Those things roll off my knife Just serve me tomatoes and mashed potatoes Give me the simple life A cottage small if all I'm after Not one that's spacious and wide A house that rings with joy and laughter And the ones you love inside Some like the high road, I like the low road Free from the care and strife Sounds corny and seedy, but yes, indeed Give me the simple life

Everything looks positively dreamy." And indeed, besides the crescent sandwiches, there are fluffy-cloud mashed potatoes, dumplings soft as feather pillows, stardust cakes, and moonbeam muffins with clotted cream. As we dine, my mouth fills with the delicate flavors of floral herbs and sugared plums.

Cheeseburger-Stuffed Twice-Baked Potatoes • MAKES 8 SERVINGS • THIS RECIPE IS THE LUSCIOUS love-child of a stuffed potato skin and a cheeseburger, where Russet potatoes are scooped out and twice-baked to make crispy carriers for a generous helping of beefy filling that’s smothered in melted cheddar cheese. It tastes as decadent as it sounds, but it is actually quite healthy, because hollowing out the potatoes keeps carbs in check (and gives you the makings of mashed potatoes for the next day) and amping up lean beef with chopped mushrooms, broccoli, and tomatoes gives you a big portion with a sensible amount of meat.

Zeke stood up. He held the Tater Tot up to the sunlight streaming in through the cafeteria window. Some kids sitting at tables nearby took notice. They listened in as Zeke began to recite: "Oh, Tater Tot, oh, Tater Tot, so tiny and round, What an amazing potato taste in you I have found! Crispy on the outside, soft and mushy inside - What kind of mysterious potato do you hide? Russet, white, Yukon gold or Idaho? Are you mashed or baked or fried - I really don't know! Mystery spud so tasty and round, What an amazing lunchtime treat in you I have found." Everyone at the table applauded, and Zeke bowed. The kids around him clapped and whooped and laughed.

everyone went and had some turkey and cornbread dressing, and hot biscuits, and mashed potatoes running with butter, and when they prayed, they thanked God for the good fortune that had found their boy, who had sense enough to know that if you’re going to be hit by a train, you have to go stand on the tracks in Memphis, Tennessee. Amen.

We watched him use his spoon to mold the mashed potatoes on his plate into the shape of a volcanic mountain. He poured gravy ever so carefully into the opening at the top. Then he set to work ridding his steak of fat, veins and other imperfections. It occurred to me that eating is the only form of professionalism most people ever attain.

You can boil them, too," I contributed. "Or mash them with milk. Or fry them. Or chop them up and put them in a soup. A very versatile vegetable, the potato.

Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour;

Okay, spuds – there’ll be roast, mash and croquettes,’ she said, tapping her notebook. ‘Any other kind you’d like?’ ‘Three types of potatoes?’ ‘Welcome to Ireland.

Just as it is impossible to predict with complete accuracy the path of a single electron, so too you cannot know with certainty the future behavior of a single potato. Thus far observations show that man has mashed potatoes millions of times, but it is not inconceivable that one time in a billion the situation could reverse itself, that a potato could mash a man.

It may sound crazy, but people like to eat what they are. If they have voracious habits they can't change, they like sweet foods. If they are tight with their money, they prefer to eat bread and mashed potatoes. If they are flamboyant they like to eat elaborately thin vegetables, fried and piled up high like a fancy hat. We are all cannibals, eating the secrets we have within.

Shawn reaches across the counter with the spoon, and I taste the creamy potatoes, rich and delicious, with just the perfect amount of tartness from the sour cream. I roll my eyes in ecstasy.

What is mashing?” “It is one of the most heinous of crimes,” his father answered. Nick’s imagination pictured the great tenor doing something strange, bizarre, and heinous with a potato masher to a beautiful lady who looked like the pictures of Anna Held on the inside of cigar boxes. He resolved, with considerable horror, that when he was old enough he would try mashing at least once.

Imagine not thinking again. Consciousness will completely end one day and you won’t even be able to check. You won’t have you, but for the moment, you are here. For a limited time, you can feel things and think. You get a glimpse of the universe, to participate in a nanosecond of its infinite life span. Everyone will be mashed potatoes, so why not be a few different things before then?

So Sara, what was your favourite thing that Santa brought you?” Lucas was passing the mashed potatoes down the table, and Isaac almost missed the one-word answer. “Jenna.” Everyone stopped talking. Well, that was interesting. Isaac looked unsure where her comment was headed. “Do you mean you asked Santa for Jenna to stay through the holidays?” “No, I asked Santa to make Jenna sleep in your bed.

Once, some friends and I were driving back from partying up there, in the middle of winter, on one of those perfectly clear and freezing nights. It was four in the morning and I was nodding in and out of hammered sleep, my vision mashed potatoes, we stopped so I could throw up at least twice. But as we drove with my face smushed on the window I noticed the field of snow along that stretch of the highway, all still and unmucked with. It looked brushed, almost. Or whipped. Designed. The patterns were the kind you'd see up close in a big rock. Sometimes you see that for far distances out here on the prairie, like a long white-blue sea. It's so gorgeous. And even with my brain's skeleton-crew state, I just thought, man. Everyone calls our part of the world bleak. But it's not bleak. I don't think it's bleak.

The smell of mashed potatoes and dirty scalps greeted me at the pysch ward as I checked in to visit Claire. This time, though, I felt no stronger than the patients there. I guess this was how it came to that. This was how a person became crazy. I knew I was very close. I had known for quite some time, despite not wanting to know. Theo’s sparkle had blotted it out. It eclipsed what, deep down, I already knew.

Her mother sounded angrily amused, a combination that made Jessie’s head spin. It seemed to her that only adults could combine emotions in so many daffy ways - if feelings were food, adult feelings would be things like chocolate-covered steak, mashed potatoes with pineapple bits, Special K with chili powder sprinkled on it instead of sugar. Jessie thought that being an adult seemed more like a punishment than a reward.

Because sometimes evil didn’t show its ugly self; it could put on the clothes of an ordinary boy. The boy could sit across the table from you, a stray lock of hair hanging in his eyes. He could be doing all the regular things boys do, shoveling in the mashed potatoes, pushing the peas around on his plate, preferring peach cobbler over rhubarb in the late summer while the wasps batted the window screen and the fan on the sideboard rotated.

This was not any other conference room. This was the room where the people sentenced to be killed by the State of Louisiana had their final meals. They ate these meals—perhaps a hamburger and french fries, perhaps steak and mashed potatoes, maybe a basket of boiled crawfish and a bowl of gumbo—before being injected with a cocktail that rendered them unconscious, paralyzed their muscles, discontinued their breathing, and stopped their hearts.

We marinate the wings in a mix of seasonings. Then, right before we fry them, we coat them in my breading mixture, which includes my grandmother’s special ingredient: instant mashed potatoes. Instant mashed potatoes mixed in with the flour and herbs makes Sweet Tea’s fried chicken extra-crispy. Grandmommy found this out by accident when she was running low on flour one Sunday afternoon and made a quick substitute with Betty Crocker potato flakes. I’m

It has now been many months, at the present writing, since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon have one—a modest, private affair, all to myself. I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when I arrive—as follows: Radishes. Baked apples, with cream Fried oysters; stewed oysters. Frogs. American coffee, with real cream. American butter. Fried chicken, Southern style. Porter-house steak. Saratoga potatoes. Broiled chicken, American style. Hot biscuits, Southern style. Hot wheat-bread, Southern style. Hot buckwheat cakes. American toast. Clear maple syrup. Virginia bacon, broiled. Blue points, on the half shell. Cherry-stone clams. San Francisco mussels, steamed. Oyster soup. Clam Soup. Philadelphia Terapin soup. Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style. Soft-shell crabs. Connecticut shad. Baltimore perch. Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas. Lake trout, from Tahoe. Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans. Black bass from the Mississippi. American roast beef. Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style. Cranberry sauce. Celery. Roast wild turkey. Woodcock. Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore. Prairie liens, from Illinois. Missouri partridges, broiled. 'Possum. Coon. Boston bacon and beans. Bacon and greens, Southern style. Hominy. Boiled onions. Turnips. Pumpkin. Squash. Asparagus. Butter beans. Sweet potatoes. Lettuce. Succotash. String beans. Mashed potatoes. Catsup. Boiled potatoes, in their skins. New potatoes, minus the skins. Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot. Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes. Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper. Green corn, on the ear. Hot corn-pone, with chitlings, Southern style. Hot hoe-cake, Southern style. Hot egg-bread, Southern style. Hot light-bread, Southern style. Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk. Apple dumplings, with real cream. Apple pie. Apple fritters. Apple puffs, Southern style. Peach cobbler, Southern style Peach pie. American mince pie. Pumpkin pie. Squash pie. All sorts of American pastry. Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more liberal way. Ice-water—not prepared in the ineffectual goblet, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.

...And indeed it did take me a long time for me to find someone I wanted to marry. But I'm so glad I waited. What I know about Pete and me is that the flame will never go out. I do not look up from tossing the salad and think, Oh, God, how the hell did I ever get here? I do not look a the back of his head and think, I don't know you at all. I wake up with my pal, and go to sleep with my lover. He still thrills me, not only sexually but because of the way he regards the life that unfolds around him. I am interested in what he says about me and the children and our respective jobs, but I am also interested in what he says about the Middle East and the migratory patterns of monarchs and the amount of nutmeg that should be grated into the mashed potatoes and the impact that being a thwarted artist had on the life of Hitler. I believe he is a truly honest and awake and kind individual. If we live more than once, I want to find him again.

April is seated at the table with Verity’s lunch. I open the refrigerator and watch as she feeds her. Verity’s jaw moves back and forth, almost robotically, after April feeds her a spoonful of mashed potatoes. It’s always soft foods. Mashed potatoes, apple sauce, blended vegetables. Hospital foods, bland and easy to ingest. I grab a cup of Crew’s pudding and then sit at the table with April and Verity. April acknowledges me with a fleeting glance and a nod, but nothing else

There's almost always a church youth group at the soup kitchen. I have yet to see an atheists' youth group. Yeah, I know, religious people don't have a monopoly on doing good. I'm sure that there are many agnostics and atheists out there slinging mashed potatoes at other soup kitchens. I know the world is full of selfless secular gropus like Doctors without Borders. But I've got to say: It's a lot easier to do good if you put your faith in a book that requires you to do good.

Steak is in what we ordered, right? I heard you say steak." Alec looked at me and nodded. "Yeah it's steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and gravy." "Oh thank God," I said and breathed a sigh of relief. "I didn't know what any of the names meant. I just heard you say steak and got the same." Alec laughed. "You’re so cute." I narrowed my eyes at him. "Every time you call me cute playboy, I will bite you." Alec looked me dead in the eye and said, "You're a cutie-mac-cute face, cutie pie.

One thing about a tiny island like Singapore is that every man, woman, and monkey in it originated from somewhere else. Whether your distant ancestors sailed from China, India, the Malay archipelago or the United Kingdom, your decision to stay is the only thing that makes you Singaporean. Your presence counts more than your origins. At least, that’s how it was supposed to be. Beneath an upper crust of white colonial administrators, the rest of us were muddled together like a savoury stew under mashed potatoes.

Pete’s Swedish Meatballs 3 cups diced stale bread, preferably sourdough 1/2 cup whole milk 1 pound ground beef 1 pound ground pork 1 pound ground lamb 1/2 teaspoon allspice 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg 1 tablespoon ground thyme Pinch of salt 1/2 cup finely minced white onion 1 egg 1 egg yolk 3 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons flour 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 cup white wine 1/2 cup heavy cream 1 teaspoon soy sauce or anchovy paste Place the diced bread in a large mixing bowl, slowly add milk, and mix thoroughly, mashing until a slurry is produced. If necessary, add a dash of cream to achieve a smooth, porridge-like consistency. Add the ground beef, pork, lamb, allspice, garlic powder, nutmeg, thyme, and salt to the bowl with bread/milk mixture and stir to combine. Add the onion, egg, egg yolk, and pepper, and sprinkle on 1 tablespoon of the flour. Beat together until the texture is smooth and you can form meatballs with your hands without the mixture falling apart. Add a little more flour to bind if necessary, then refrigerate the meat mixture for 20 minutes. While the meat chills, melt 3 tablespoons of the butter in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Reduce heat to low to prevent burning. Remove the meat mixture from the refrigerator and form it into 1- to 11/2-inch meatballs, using a large baking sheet as a landing zone. Place about 10 meatballs into the skillet and cook on medium-low, rotating meatballs in the butter to ensure browning on all sides. Once meatballs are browned and retaining their shape, cover the skillet with a lid and cook for an additional 20 minutes—uncovering every 5 minutes to stir briefly and add a splash of white wine if the skillet is looking dry, then re-cover. This will help the meatballs to steam and cook all the way through. Slice a meatball in half to test for doneness. If it’s firm to the touch and lightly pink inside, remove the rest from the skillet to a serving bowl and repeat steps 4 and 5 with the remaining meatballs. Meatballs will continue cooking after being removed from the heat. Once all the meatballs are cooked and transferred to the serving bowl, reduce the heat under the skillet to low. Scrape the bottom to remove browned bits, then add the remaining white wine, remaining butter, remaining flour, the heavy cream, and the soy sauce. Stir until smooth, cooking over low to medium-low heat until the sauce coats the back of a spoon. Eat as a dinner party appetizer with lingonberry jam and plenty of toothpicks, or serve with buttered egg noodles or mashed potatoes as a main course, while listening to “I Wanna Be Loved” by the Andrews Sisters.

He sits in an old armchair in the corner covered with bits of blankets and a bucket behind the chair that stinks enough to make you sick and when you look at that old man in the dark corner you want to get a hose with hot water and strip him and wash him down and give him a big feed of rashers and eggs and mashed potatoes with loads of butter and salt and onions. I want to take the man from the Boer War and the pile of rags in the bed and put them in a big sunny house in the country with birds chirping away outside the window and a stream gurgling.

overlooking the wharf. She couldn’t read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. So full, Kya thought she might get sick, but figured it’d be worth

When the breakfast dishes are cleared, she starts on the large midday meal: chicken pie or pot roast or fish stew; mashed or boiled potatoes; peas or carrots, fresh or canned, depending on the season. What’s left over reappears at supper, transformed into a casserole or a stew. Mother

I've been studying every aspect of every dish on sauté for the past two months. How the orzo-filled roasted onions accompany the red snapper in a tart broth dotted with hot chili and cilantro oil. How the pheasant, seared skin-side down and flipped, then finished off in the oven, is served with pumpkin risotto, cranberry coulis, and a side of garlic greens. How the grouper, sautéed in olive oil, then butter, and finished in the oven, lies on a mountain of mashed potatoes surrounded by baby turnips and roasted bits of corn, lightly drizzled with a balsamic reduction.

In the end, I always want potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Nothing like mashed potatoes when you're feeling blue...The problem with mashed potatoes, though, is that they require almost as much hard work as crisp potatoes, and when you're feeling blue the last thing you feel like is hard work. Of course, you can always get someone to make the mashed potatoes for you, but let's face it: the reason you're blue is that there isn't anyone to make them for you. As a result, most people do not have nearly enough mashed potatoes in their lives, and when they do, it's almost always at the wrong time.

He never developed the walk that men get when the day is over and they are going back to their cells for another endless night—that flat-footed, hump-shouldered walk. Andy walked with his shoulders squared, and his step was always light, as if he were heading home to a good home-cooked meal and a good woman instead of to a tasteless mess of soggy vegetables, lumpy mashed potato, and a slice or two of that fatty, gristly stuff most of the cons called mystery meat . . . that, and a picture of Raquel Welch on the wall. But for those four years, although he never became exactly like the others, he did become silent, introspective, and brooding.

Tender poached egg. Creamy mashed potatoes. And the thick layer of hot, melted cheese! Those are all incredibly delicious, but what takes the cake is the roux! It's been made in a VICHYSSOISE style!" VICHYSSOISE Boiled potatoes, onions, leeks and other ingredients are pureed with cream and soup stock to make this potage. It's often served chilled. Its creation is generally credited to Louis Diat, a French chef at the Ritz Carlton in New York, who first put it on the hotel's menu in 1917. "Amazing! It looks like a thick, heavy dish that would sit in the stomach like lead, but it's so easy to eat!" "The noodles! It's the udon noodles, along with the coriander powder, that makes it feel so much lighter! Coriander is known for its fresh, almost citrusy scent and its mildly spicy bite. It goes exceptionally well with the cumin kneaded into the noodles, each spice working to heighten the other's fragrance. AAAH! It's immensely satisfying!" "I have also included dill, vichyssoise's traditional topping. Dry roasting the dill seeds together with the cumin seeds made a spice mix that gave a strong aroma to the roux." "Hm! Fat noodles in a thick, creamy roux. Eating them is much the same experience as having dipping noodles. What an amazing concept to arrive at from a century-old French soup recipe!

Artistic temperament is not a choice. Jan suffered for his. And it means being aware, from the time one discovers that other people exist, that other people do not see things as one does. Sometimes it seems that other people all see things alike, and that however everyone else sees things it is not as one does. It startles the young artist at first-the first few times he is told walls are not for drawing on, that mashed potatoes are not clay, that horses are not blue. In time he realizes, Oh, I'm on my own with this. My visions can't be shared or discussed in mixed company. And if I try to talk about them, someone might laugh or shake her head uncomprehendingly or try to make me stop.

Plopbottle closed his eyes. Suddenly he wasn’t a low-grade technician any more, he was Johnny Marino in Disco Night Fever. Confident, sophisticated, chic, and above all, not a goblin. He pointed down to the floor and up to the ceiling, he twirled his jacket round his head and spun on his heels. He hustled, he shimmied, he mash potatoed, he did the boogaloo.

Strong, good smells clash with each other, garlic against cinnamon, savory against sweet. Two dressings, Ma's traditional corn bread version as well as the stuffing she made last year for a change of pace, a buttery version with cherries and sausage and hazelnuts. The herb-brined turkey, probably larger than we need, and a challenge to manhandle into and out of the refrigerator. A deep dish of creamy, smooth mashed potatoes, riced and dried to make them thirsty, then plumped back up with warmed cream and butter. For dessert, a mocha cake I came up with one day. In the batter is barely sweetened chocolate and dark, strong coffee. The layers are sealed together with more chocolate, warmed up with a hint of ancho powder.

Torture Cuisine by Stewart Stafford Kitchen death growls, Whipping that cream, Beating those eggs, Burning all the toast. Knifing diced cheese, Drawn, quartered ham, Straining tomato sauce, Crushed-down walnuts. Peeling potatoes naked, Then smashing them up, You say purée, I say mash, Turkey and chicken skewers. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked. “I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.” Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.” “Broth?” he repeated indignantly. “Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.

I feel like it's comically obvious whose meal is whose. Benny's fish is beautifully seared, with a lemon-rosemary glaze and sitting on a bed of wild rice with grilled asparagus on the side. It's becoming clearer to me all the time that the boy understated his abilities that first day, telling me he could only do pasta and pastries. Anyone who can whip something like that up without a recipe at their side is a pro in my book. On the other hand, my dish is straight out of a heart surgeon's worst nightmares. Piles of fried fish still shimmery with grease and heavily salted and peppered, next to mashed potatoes with an extra pat of butter on top, as if the multiple sticks that went into their preparation weren't enough. It's stick-to-your-ribs, clog-your-arteries goodness.

The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

but be sure not to have it boil. Remove from the fire, and add a piece of butter the size of an egg. This is sufficient for eight people. =Potato Soup= 4 Potatoes 3 Pints of Milk Piece of Butter size of an Egg Small piece of Onion Take four large potatoes, boil until done and mash smooth, adding butter and salt to taste. Heat the milk in a double boiler, cook the onion in it a few minutes and then

Have you seen my daughter?” “Daughter?” I’m the worst liar ever. I stare at Sarah’s tall, imposing father and try to smile. “She’s getting us a table?” He narrows his gray eyes, and then tightens his mouth. “Is that a question or a statement?” “Statement?” I’m so blowing this. He exhales and nods. “Well, then. I guess I’ll see you in the banquet room.” Harlin grins as Sarah’s father walks away. “You are so subtle, Charlotte. Are you a ninja?” “Shut up.” “I’m sure he didn’t find that at all suspicious.” “Harlin!” He laughs and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll stop,” he says. “But where is Sarah? You might want to find her before we sit down for chicken with that man. What will you say if he asks you to pass the mashed potatoes? Mashed potatoes?” Harlin finishes, imitating my voice.

Hope is prayer’s second cousin, darkly dressed and hovering around the outside edge of the family photograph. If prayer is a plea to the Almighty for a precedented miracle—prayer’s memory is long—hope is a plea to nothing, to everything, to any possible refutation of the facts. It is tethered to the dreadful single-digit percentage, the medical equipment humming, the long sleepless night. Prayer can (or once could) deliver a miracle; hope can only give a body another week, maybe another month. Sometimes the dying can set goals and reach them: just let me see my son get married, my granddaughter turn ten, my family carve into the Thanksgiving turkey. Hope can outlast dress fittings, gift wrapping, and potato mashing, but it can’t deliver anything more. What hope does best is make plans. Sometimes those plans are to desperately avoid the worst.

Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

So you've nearly done it, huh?" I said, a trifle inanely but just trying to make conversation. "Yes" said the girl. She said it slowly, as two syllables, as if it hadn't previously occurred to her. There was something serenely mindless in her manner. "Did you ever feel like giving up?" The girl thought for a moment. "No," she said simply. "Really?" I found this amazing. "Did you never think, 'Jeez, this is too much. I don't know that I want to go through with this'?" She thought again, with an air of approaching panic. These were obviously questions that had never penetrated her skull. Her partner came to her rescue. "We had a couple of low moments in the early phases," he said, "but we put our faith in the Lord and His will prevailed." "Praise Jesus," whispered the girl, almost inaudibly. "Ah," I said, and made a mental note to lock my door when I went to bed. "And God bless Allah for the mashed potatoes!" said Katz happily and reached for the bowl for the third time.

Ah reckon we can git us some rest'rant vittles," Pa said, and led her along the pier toward the Barkley Cove Diner. Kya had never eaten restaurant food; had never set food inside. Her heart thumped as she brushed dried mud from her way-too-short overalls and patted down her tangled hair. As Pa opened the door, every customer paused mid-bite. A few men nodded faintly at Pa; the women frowned and turned their heads. One snorted, "Well, they prob'ly can't read the shirt and shoes required." Pa motioned for her to sit at a small table overlooking the wharf. She couldn’t read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert.

Had they known how life would become a dark, narrow hole in which they would sleep less than they ever thought possible, hardly ever see a horizon without smoke or fire corroding its edges, eat turnips and potatoes that have been boiled into a bitter white mash at nearly every meal, they might have enjoyed even more those empty days that began with overly salted sausage and sweet jam, were filled with long walks across tangled, abandoned vines and beneath thick groves of apple trees, and ended with cognac, a piece of Toblerone, and the BBC on the wireless.

Subect: Sigh. Okay. Since we're on the subject... Q. What is the Tsar of Russia's favorite fish? A. Tsardines, of course. Q. What does the son of a Ukranian newscaster and a U.S. congressman eat for Thanksgiving dinner on an island off the coast of Massachusetts? A.? -Ella Subect: TG A. Republicans. Nah.I'm sure we'll have all the traditional stuff: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. I'm hoping for apple pie. Our hosts have a cook who takes requests, but the island is kinda limited as far as shopping goes. The seven of us will probably spend the morning on a boat, then have a civilized chow-down. I predict Pictionary. I will win. You? -Alex Subect: Re. TG Alex, I will be having my turkey (there ill be one, but it will be somewhat lost among the pumpkin fettuccine, sausage-stuffed artichokes, garlic with green beans, and at least four lasagnas, not to mention the sweet potato cannoli and chocolate ricotta pie) with at least forty members of my close family, most of whom will spend the entire meal screaming at each other. Some will actually be fighting, probably over football. I am hoping to be seated with the adults. It's not a sure thing. What's Martha's Vineyard like? I hear it's gorgeous. I hear it's favored by presidential types, past and present. -Ella Subject: Can I Have TG with You? Please??? There's a 6a.m. flight off the island. I can be back in Philadelphia by noon. I've never had Thanksgiving with more than four or five other people. Only child of two only children. My grandmother usually hosts dinner at the Hunt Club. She doesn't like turkey. Last year we had Scottish salmon. I like salmon,but... The Vineyard is pretty great. The house we're staying in is in Chilmark, which, if you weren't so woefully ignorant of defunct television, is the birthplace of Fox Mulder. I can see the Menemsha fishing fleet out my window. Ever heard of Menemsha Blues? I should bring you a T-shirt. Everyone has Black Dogs; I prefer a good fish on the chest. (Q. What do you call a fish with no eyes? A. Fish.) We went out on a boat this afternoon and actually saw a humpback whale. See pics below. That fuzzy gray lump in the bumpy gray water is a fin. A photographer I am not. Apparently, they're usually gone by now, heading for the Caribbean. It's way too cold to swim, but amazing in the summer. I swear I got bumped by a sea turtle here last July 4, but no one believes me. Any chance of saving me a cannoli? -A

First, she must unequivocally say “no” to the housewife image. This does not mean, of course, that she must divorce her husband, abandon her children, give up her home. She does not have to choose between marriage and career; that was the mistaken choice of the feminine mystique. In actual fact, it is not as difficult as the feminine mystique implies, to combine marriage and motherhood and even the kind of lifelong personal purpose that once was called “career.” It merely takes a new life plan—in terms of one’s whole life as a woman. The first step in that plan is to see housework for what it is—not a career, but something that must be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. Once a woman stops trying to make cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, “something more,” she can say “no, I don’t want a stove with rounded corners, I don’t want four different kinds of soap.” She can say “no” to those mass daydreams of the women’s magazines and television, “no” to the depth researchers and manipulators who are trying to run her life. Then, she can use the vacuum cleaner and the dishwasher and all the automatic appliances, and even the instant mashed potatoes for what they are truly worth—to save time that can be used in more creative ways.

There, in that presumed paradise, the engineers were stranded in the company of an infantile mentality. They created artificial smartness, made a simulacrum of intelligence. But what they talked to all day was little more than a mechanism that read bits off a disk drive. If a comma in the code was out of place, it complained like a kid who won’t tolerate a pea touching the mashed potatoes. And, exhausted though the programmer may be, the machine was like an uncanny child that never got tired. There was Karl and the rest of the team, fitting the general definition of the modern software engineer: a man left alone all day with a cranky, illiterate thing, which he must somehow make grow up. It was an odd and satisfying gender revenge. Is it any surprise that these isolated men need relief, seek company, hook up This is not to say that women are not capable of engineering’s male-like isolation. Until I became a programmer, I didn’t thoroughly understand the usefulness of such isolation: the silence, the reduction of life to thought and form; for example, going off to a dark room to work on a program when relations with people get difficult. I’m perfectly capable of this isolation. I first noticed it during the visit of a particularly tiresome guest. All I could think was: There’s that bug waiting for me, I really should go find that bug.

The last meal aboard the Titanic was remarkable. It was a celebration of cuisine that would have impressed the most jaded palate. There were ten courses in all, beginning with oysters and a choice of Consommé Olga, a beef and port wine broth served with glazed vegetables and julienned gherkins, or Cream of Barley Soup. Then there were plate after plate of main courses- Poached Salmon and Cucumbers with Mousseline Sauce, a hollandaise enriched with whipped cream; Filet Mignon Lili, steaks fried in butter, hen topped with an artichoke bottom, foie gras and truffle and served with a Périgueux sauce, a sauté of Chicken Lyonnaise; Lamb with Mint Sauce; Roast Duckling with Apple Sauce; Roast Squash with Cress and Sirloin Beef. There were also a garden's worth of vegetables, prepared both hot and cold. And several potatoes- Château Potatoes, cut to the shape of olives and cooked gently in clarified butter until golden and Parmentier Potatoes, a pureed potato mash garnished with crouton and chervil. And, of course, pâté de foie gras. To cleanse the palate, there was a sixth course of Punch à la Romaine, dry champagne, simple sugar syrup, the juice of two oranges and two lemons, and a bit of their zest. The mixture was steeped, strained, fortified with rum, frozen, topped with a sweet meringue and served like a sorbet. For dessert there was a choice of Waldorf Pudding, Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly, Chocolate and Vanilla Èclairs and French ice cream.

Michael’s Magical Sweet Potato Muffins WHISK TOGETHER 1 cup dark brown sugar, 1/2 cup oil, 1 running-over teaspoon vanilla, and 2 eggs. Then, in another bowl, mix together 2 cups all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. To that, add 2 big giant sweet potatoes—either baked or boiled—and mashed. I suppose you COULD use canned ones, but it kinda makes me gag to think about. Add your egg/sugar mixture to all of that and stir it up without beating it to death. Put it in greased muffin tins and bake for about 25 to 30 minutes at 350°F. (If you want to, you could add 1/2 cup raisins or 1 cup pecans. I’d go with the pecans—not a big fan of raisins in stuff, but that’s just me.)   Okay—I have got

Once the leeks and potatoes have simmered for an hour or so, you mash them up with a fork or a food mill or a potato ricer. All three of these options are far more of a pain in the neck than the Cuisinart- one of which space-munching behemoths we scored when we got married- but Julia Child allows as how a Cuisinart will turn soup into "something un-French and monotonous." Any suggestion that uses the construction "un-french" is up for debate, but if you make Potage Parmentier, you will see her point. If you use the ricer, the soup will have bits- green bits and white bits and yellow bits- instead of being utterly smooth. After you've mushed it up, just stir in a couple of hefty chunks of butter, and you're done. JC says sprinkle with parsley but you don't have to. It looks pretty enough as it is, and it smells glorious, which is funny when you think about it. There's not a thing in it but leeks, potatoes, butter, water, pepper, and salt.

Sweet potato. Mashed yams covered in beef jerky. French bread. Butter. A warm bowl of couscous. It's like she's trying to feed an army. "I'm not very hungry," I say. "It's not like you to refuse breakfast," she says with a wink. And my heart stops, because Mom winks just like Grandma used to. "And you barely ate last night. You need sustenance." I join her at the counter, trying not to think about how without a third stool at the center to balance our family out, the counter feels much wider than it is. Our breakfast begins quietly, just the hum of the fridge in the background. I add butter to my yams, and the spoonful melts in my mouth, warming me up from inside out. I scoop up the little cuts of beef jerky individually, leftover from last night, chewing on them with my eyes closed. I let the salty flavor spread over my taste buds to wake them up one by one. I then pull my bowl of milk couscous closer, breathing in the cinnamon-fragrant steam.

They began with a winter soup, lovingly cooked in a copper pot with a shinbone left over from Sunday lunch- But the witch brought in a light bouillon, simmered with the sweetest of baby shallots and scented with ginger and lemongrass and served with croutons so crisp and small that they seemed to vanish in her mouth- The mother brought in the second course. Sausages and potato mash; a comforting dish the child always loved, with sticky onion marmalade- But the witch brought in a brace of quail that had been gorged on ripe figs all their lives, now roasted and stuffed with chestnuts and foie gras and served with a coulis of pomegranate- Now the mother was close to despair. She brought dessert: a stout apple pie, made to her mother's recipe. But the witch had made a pièce montée: a pastel-colored sugared dream of almonds, summer fruit, and pastries like a puff of air, all scented with rose and marshmallow cream, and served with a glass of Château d'Yquem-

See, for the Kuri Kinton chestnuts, I used prepackaged boiled sweet potatoes! I simmered them in some orange juice and then mashed them until they were smooth. Normal Kuri Kinton use gardenia fruit to give the chestnuts an orange color, but I swapped those out for sweet potatoes and orange juice... ... making mine more of a Joke Kuri Kinton! The rolled omelet is made of egg and Hanpen fish cakes I found near the Oden ! I blended it all in a food processor with some salt and sugar before cooking it in an omelet pan. Red-and-White Salad! Seasoning regular salad veggies with salt, sugar and vinegar turns them into a Red-and-White Salad! Salting the veggies ahead of time draws out moisture, making them crispier and allowing them to soak up more sweet vinegar. Checkered Prosciutto Rolls! I just wrapped some snack-cup precut carrot and daikon sticks in prosciutto strips and voilà! A little honey and mustard dabbed inside the prosciutto works as a glue to hold it all together.

What is Gosetsu Udon, you ask? Meaning "snowy noodles," it is a local specialty from Kutchan, Hokkaido, one of the snowiest places on Earth! The Kutchan region is a big producer of potatoes, and one of the most famous kinds they grow is the extra mealy and starchy Irish Cobbler Potato, also called Danshaku. It's from that potato that Gosetsu Udon Noodles are made! In fact, Gosetsu Udon Noodles are 95 percent starch! First, boil the potatoes, and then peel them... Mash them until they're smooth and fluffy... Then add water, salt and flour to make the dough! "There wasn't enough flour left for us to use. But thankfully... ... there were a few bags of this still available!" Potato starch! That was meant to be used for dusting cutting boards and table surfaces when making handmade noodles! It's not normally used as an ingredient in noodles... but as it's potato starch, that changes when it comes to potato noodles! Acting as the glue holding the noodles together, it also adds that extra starchiness for making the finished noodles that much chewier!

So,” Marlboro Man began over dinner one night. “How many kids do you want to have?” I almost choked on my medium-rare T-bone, the one he’d grilled for me so expertly with his own two hands. “Oh my word,” I replied, swallowing hard. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. “I don’t know…how many kids do you want to have?” “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Six or so. Maybe seven.” I felt downright nauseated. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, my body preparing me for the dreaded morning sickness that, I didn’t know at the time, awaited me. Six or seven kids? Righty-oh, Marlboro Man. Righty…no. “Ha-ha ha-ha ha. Ha.” I laughed, tossing my long hair over my shoulder and acting like he’d made a big joke. “Yeah, right! Ha-ha. Six kids…can you imagine?” Ha-ha. Ha. Ha.” The laughter was part humor, part nervousness, part terror. We’d never had a serious discussion about children before. “Why?” He looked a little more serious this time. “How many kids do you think we should have?” I smeared my mashed potatoes around on my plate and felt my ovaries leap inside my body. This was not a positive development. Stop that! I ordered, silently. Settle down! Go back to sleep! I blinked and took a swig of the wine Marlboro Man had bought me earlier in the day. “Let’s see…,” I answered, drumming my fingernails on the table. “How ’bout one? Or maybe…one and a half?” I sucked in my stomach--another defensive move in an attempt to deny what I didn’t realize at the time was an inevitable, and jiggly, future. “One?” he replied. “Aw, that’s not nearly enough of a work crew for me. I’ll need a lot more help than that!” Then he chuckled, standing up to clear our plates as I sat there in a daze, having no idea whether or not he was kidding. It was the strangest conversation I’d ever had. I felt like the roller coaster had just pulled away from the gate, and the entire amusement park was pitch-black. I had no idea what was in front of me; I was entering a foreign land. My ovaries, on the other hand, were doing backflips, as if they’d been wandering, parched, in a barren wasteland and finally, miraculously, happened upon a roaring waterfall. And that waterfall was about six feet tall, with gray hair and bulging biceps. They never knew they could experience such hope.

How is his temperature?” “He needs to go up one more degree.” “The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that… I’m famished.” “The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said. “Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked. “I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.” Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.” “Broth?” he repeated indignantly. “Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.” “Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?” “Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.” “Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said. “No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.” The twins cleared the dogs and pig from the room and left. Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely. He complied with a long-suffering expression.

Cheddar Cheese Grits Ingredients: 2 cups whole milk 2 cups water 1 1/2 teaspoons salt 1 cup coarse ground cornmeal 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 4 ounces sharp Cheddar, shredded Directions: Place the milk, water, and salt into a large, heavy-gauge pan over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Once the milk mixture comes to a boil, gradually add the cornmeal while continually stirring. Once all of the cornmeal has been incorporated, decrease the heat to low and cover. Remove lid and stir frequently, every few minutes, to prevent grits from sticking or forming lumps; make sure to get into corners of the pan when stirring. Cook for 20 to 25 minutes or until mixture is creamy. Remove from the heat, add the pepper and butter, and whisk to combine. Once the butter is melted, gradually whisk in the cheese a little at a time. Serve immediately. Sweet Potato Casserole Ingredients: For the sweet potatoes 3 cups (1 29-ounce can) sweet potatoes, drained ½ cup melted butter ⅓ cup milk ¾ cup sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla 2 beaten eggs salt to taste For the topping: 5 tablespoons melted butter ⅔ cup brown sugar ⅔ cup flour 1 cup pecan pieces Instructions: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Mash the sweet potatoes and add the melted butter, milk, sugar, vanilla, beaten eggs, and a pinch of salt. Stir until incorporated. Pour into a shallow baking dish or a cast iron skillet. Combine the butter, brown sugar, flour, and pecan pieces in a small bowl, using your fingers to create moist crumbs. Sprinkle generously over the casserole. Bake for 25-35 minutes, until the edges pull away from the sides of the pan and the top is golden brown. Let stand for the mixture to cool and solidify a little bit before serving. Southern Fried Chicken Ingredients: 4 pounds chicken pieces 1 1/2 cups milk 2 large eggs 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons salt 2 teaspoons pepper 3 cups vegetable oil salt to taste Preparation: Rinse chicken; pat dry and then set aside. Combine milk and eggs in a bowl; whisk to blend well. In a large heavy-duty plastic food storage bag, combine the flour, salt, and pepper. Dip a chicken piece in the milk mixture; let excess drip off into bowl. Put a few chicken pieces in the food storage bag and shake lightly to coat thoroughly. Remove to a plate and repeat with remaining chicken pieces. Heat oil to 350°. Fry chicken, a few pieces at a time, for about 10 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and cooked through. Chicken breasts will take a little less time than other pieces. Pierce with a fork to see if juices run clear to check for doneness. With a slotted spoon, move to paper towels to drain; sprinkle with salt.

Serves 2 Prep time: 10 minutes Cook time: 15 minutes Total time: 25 minutes 1 head cauliflower, cut into florets (about 4 cups) 2 cloves garlic, minced ½ cup coconut cream 2 tablespoons ghee or clarified butter 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black pepper ½ cup chicken broth 1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley This may be the most versatile recipe ever. It’s a lighter substitute for mashed potatoes, and has dozens of variations to match nearly any style of cuisine. Add more chicken broth if you like it extra creamy, or keep the chicken broth to just a tablespoon or so if you prefer it really thick. Try topping with crumbled Whole30-compliant bacon or crispy prosciutto; add a blend of fresh herbs like rosemary, oregano, and thyme; kick it up a notch with 2 tablespoons of grated, peeled fresh horseradish root or 1 teaspoon chili powder; add a dollop of whole grain mustard (perfect alongside pork); or stir in shredded cabbage and kale sautéed in clarified butter or ghee. Bring 2 cups of water to a boil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the cauliflower florets and garlic and simmer until the florets are fork-tender, about 15 minutes. Drain the cauliflower and transfer to a food processor. Add the coconut cream, ghee, salt, and pepper and pulse until the cauliflower begins to turn smooth in consistency. Add the chicken broth one tablespoon at a time, pulsing to mix, until the desired consistency is achieved. Add the parsley and continue blending until completely smooth. Serve warm. Make It a Meal: This dish goes well with anything. Seriously, anything. But if you made us pick a few favorites, we’d say Braised Beef Brisket, Chicken Meatballs, Halibut with Citrus-Ginger Glaze, and Walnut-Crusted Pork Tenderloin. ✪Mashing You can use a variety of tools for this dish, depending on how you prefer the texture of your mash. If you prefer a silky smooth mash, the food processor is a must. If you like it really chunky, use a hand tool (like a potato masher or large kitchen fork) instead. If you like your mash somewhere in between, try using an immersion blender.

When Freddy, at fourteen, dumped a bowl of mashed potatoes on his then-seven-year-old brother’s head, it wounded Donald’s pride so deeply that he’d still be bothered by it when Maryanne brought it up in her toast at the White House birthday dinner in 2017. The incident wasn’t a big deal—or it shouldn’t have been. Donald had been tormenting Robert, again, and nobody could get him to stop. Even at seven, he felt no need to listen to his mother, who, having failed to heal the rift between them after her illness, he treated with contempt. Finally, Robert’s crying and Donald’s needling became too much, and in a moment of improvised expedience that would become family legend, Freddy picked up the first thing at hand that wouldn’t cause any real damage: the bowl of mashed potatoes.

I had a dream where I was in a place that served steak and mashed potatoes and the soup! The pasta soup was heavenly even better than my mother’s homemade recipe. Every spoonful of the soup reminded me of the sun. The mashed potatoes were so smooth that they could slide down my gullet. The steak was medium-rare, my favorite, and every bite reminded me of the steak my mom made but it was one hundred and one times better.  And there was also iced tea and every sip of it felt refreshing like a cold, winter morning with the sun shining merrily and my mom and I throwing snowballs at each other. I  ate and drank until I could eat no more. I felt as if my stomach was about to combust. But then in came the tiramisu. It was better than anything I had ever tasted. The rich smell of coffee wafted up from it. It reminded me of the coffee shop my mom went to when I was little. Despite the fact that my stomach was about to explode I managed to fit in three more slices of tiramisu before I could eat no more. But then came the Ice cream. It was my favorite flavor, mango. The ice cream was silky and sweet. It was like I was on a sunny June morning, a ray of sunlight shining in my face. The sensation intensified as mango juice dribbled down my chin like sunlight itself. I managed six scoops before I was sure my belly would explode. Every moment of eating the ice cream was sunsational. Finally came the float. It was vanilla ice cream on top of some Fanta even though my mom insisted root beer was one hundred times better. It tasted amazing. It was like the early spring making our ice crack in the pond on which my mother and I go ice skating every winter. It was happy but also sad at the same time as if my old life called back for me.

This brisket must have taken you hours," Hudson says, sitting next to me. "A brisket like this takes all night, son," Shawn says, not even looking at Hudson. All of the guards laugh. "Then you'd better walk me through how to serve this before I embarrass myself further," Hudson says. "Definitely," I say, passing the brisket to Shawn, at the head of the table. "You didn't have to agree so quickly," Hudson says. "You can do it a couple of ways. The white bread and the barbecue sauce plus the brisket make a nice sandwich, like Jace is doing," I say, pointing to the now silenced doubting Thomas. I continue, "Or you can just have the brisket with or without barbecue sauce and with or without the ranch beans and slaw, kind of blending in, like turkey, cranberries, and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving," I say. "Isn't brisket supposed to be served with biscuits?" Hudson asks, serving himself some ranch beans. The conversation at the table screeches to a halt. The guards and Warden Dale just shake their heads and continue talking and eating. "I think from here on out, you just need to start actively censoring your thoughts and opinions. For your own safety," I say, laughing.

No matter what anyone in North Star thought of my mom, everyone agreed on one thing: she was the best cook in the Texas Hill Country. She was known for her barbecue and fried pies. But she was most famous for one particular dish. The dish people people would drive hundreds of miles for was simply called the Number One. I imagine Momma was going to make a list of specials. The trouble was, she never got past the Number One. So there it sat at the top of the menu, alone, all by itself. The Number One: Chicken fried steak with cream gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans cooked in bacon fat, one buttermilk biscuit, and a slice of pecan pie With Brad's words ringing in my head about my vague culinary vision, I decide to make the Number One for tonight's supper. After leaving the salon, I drive to various farm stands, grocery stores, and butchers. I handpick the top-round steak with care, choose fresh eggs one by one, and feel an immense sense of home as I pull Mom's cast-iron skillet from the depths of Merry Carole's cabinets. My happiest memories involve me walking into whatever house we were staying in at the time to the sounds and smells of chicken fried steak sizzling away in that skillet. This dish is at the very epicenter of who I am. If my culinary roots start anywhere, it's with the Number One. As I tenderize the beef, my mind is clear and I'm happy. I haven't cooked like this- my recipes for me and the people I love- in far too long. If ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. I'm happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I haven't a care in the world. Being in Merry Carole's kitchen has washed away everything I left in the whirlwind of being back in North Star.

In many ways, turnips are the unsung heroes of the root crop universe. They don't have the ad budget potatoes have, or the glamorous appearance of carrots, but they shouldn't be underestimated. They're high in vitamins and minerals, low in sugar, and taste delicious roasted, caramelized, or mashed with a pound of butter. Pliny the Elder considered the turnip the most important vegetable of his day, because "its utility surpasses that of any other plant's." Say what you want about Pliny the Elder... he was a man who knew his vegetables.

beef ragout, a bubbling and airy cheese soufflé, luscious and crispy roast chickens, mashed potatoes that had little pools of melted butter.

She bent over the table and proceeded to tip the pitcher over each plate and spill a thick white goo over everything. It covered the turkey and the yams and puddled all over each plate. Roughly the texture of heavy whipping cream. Decker couldn’t, by god, tell what that was supposed to be. “What is that?” he asked. “Gravy?” Stung, Araceli backed away from the table and clutched the pitcher to her heart. “Is los mash potatoes!” she cried and ran to the kitchen in humiliation. They could hear her crying in there. Dexter rose. “God. Damn. It,” he announced. “Look here. This is my country. This is my country. We been here, working this land, forever. We made our lives here. We planted crops here. We had our children and - and we buried our loved ones here. Right here! Is it too goddamned much to ask that somebody pay the slightest fucking attention to our traditions and history and stop wrecking everything? Could you learn the language? Could you cook a simple meal that anybody from here would recognize as real food? Am I asking too much?” He was red in the face and shaking. He was embarrassed about the whole thing - ashamed of his comment to Araceli, ashamed to have shown his emotions, ashamed that he had tears in the corners of his eyes. Outbursts were simply not the West Linden way. Reverend Visser just stared at his own hands with his head bowed. Juan fingered the arrowhead, spun it around and around with one finger. He didn’t want to eat the goopy mash potatoes either. “Yeah, Jefe. That’s what Geronimo said.

Some of those young deputies are as sharp as a mashed potato sandwich,

We also ate well in the kitchen, and I found that I had inherited my father's palate and appreciation of good food. Our cuisine at home always been rather basic, even in the days when we had a cook, and I became fascinated with the process of creating such wonderful flavors. "Show me how you made that parsley sauce, those meringues, that oyster stew," I'd say to Mrs Robbins, the cook. And if she had a minute to spare, she would show me. After a while, seeing my willingness as well as my obvious aptitude for cooking, she suggested to Mrs Tilley that her old legs were not up to standing for hours any more and that she needed an assistant cook. And she requested me. Mrs Tilley agreed, but only if she didn't have to pay me more money and I should still be available to do my party piece whenever she entertained. And so I went to work in the kitchen. Mrs Robbins found me a willing pupil. After lugging coal scuttles up all those stairs, it felt like heaven to be standing at a table preparing food. We had a scullery maid who did all the most menial of jobs, like chopping the onions and peeling the potatoes, but I had to do the most basic of tasks- mashing the potatoes with lots of butter and cream until there wasn't a single lump, basting the roast so that the fat was evenly crisp. I didn't mind. I loved being amongst the rich aromas. I loved the look of a well-baked pie. The satisfaction when Mrs Robbins nodded with approval at something I had prepared. And of course I loved the taste of what I had created. Now when I went home to Daddy and Louisa, I could say, "I roasted that pheasant. I made that apple tart." And it gave me a great rush of satisfaction to say the words. "You've a good feel of it, I'll say that for you," Mrs Robbins told me, and after a while she even sought my opinion. "Does this casserole need a touch more salt, do you think? Or maybe some thyme?" The part I loved the best was the baking. She showed me how to make pastry, meringues that were light as air, all sorts of delicate biscuits and rich cakes.

O My O My I dreamt of fries They filled the skies And rained from the cloud Pounding rooftops rather loud I ran People ran We all ran To fill our can O my o my Fries are falling The farmer comes calling Wondering why buyers are stalling This can't be the farmer says It’s pouring heavenly spuds He grabbed a chair To reach for his share There will be another year When potatoes will bear And buyers will want his spuds Because there will be no heavenly buds There will be tater tots For the pots And cooked potatoes to mash So there’ll be some cash There’ll be potatoes to bake To have with steak Top that off with a cake Not all is at stake Add potato rolls For a long stroll My O my fries arrive Without a toll Make wedges For some edges Tie a spud with a bandana Potatoes have gone bananas

The zombies stepped into the green glow of the torches. As Carl had predicted, the zombies were weird, but they didn’t have ghasts for heads: they had potatoes. Baked potatoes. “No,” gasped Carl, as he caught sight of the potato-head zombies. “No, no, no, no, no!” For as long as Dave had known him, Carl’s favorite food had always been baked potatoes, and now he was facing an army of zombies with giant potatoes instead of heads. They didn’t even have eyes or mouths, just huge baked potatoes on the top of their normal zombie bodies. “Let’s give these potatoes a good mashing!” said Jimmy. “NO!” shouted Carl. Everyone looked at him. “We … we can’t hurt them,” said Carl. “They’re potatoes!” “So?” said Emma. “Potatoes!” said Carl. “Don’t you understand? Potatoes!

In the cafeteria, Knowledge said to me, “Life’s only as bad as you make it out to be. It’s got nothing to do with the way it is.” After three quick shovels of mashed potatoes, she mumbled, “You get me?” Her knees rattled under our table. I folded and unfolded the paper napkin on my lap and drank my milk before telling her that I didn’t, and that I didn’t understand most of what she said.

But no, I didn’t go to all that effort shaving all my bits for nothing. There’s no point peeling a potato if you don’t plan on mashing it, and damn it, this potato is going to get mashed.

The repetition had willed her, anticipated her, cursed her, and certain moves made long ago had produced all of them: Sai, judge, Mutt, cook, and even the mashed-potato car.

There is nothing wicked about having a dreadful singing voice, any more than there is something wicked about having dreadful posture, dreadful cousins, or a dreadful pair of pants. Many noble and pleasant people have any number of these things, and there are even one or two kind individuals who have them all. But if you have something dreadful, and you force it upon someone else, then you have done something quite wicked indeed. If you force your wicked posture on someone, for instance, by leaning so far back that they are forced to carry you down the street, then you have wickedly ruined their afternoon walk, and if you force your dreadful cousins on someone, by dropping them off to play at their house so you can escape from their dreadful presences and spend some time alone, then you have wickedly ruined their entire day, and only a very wicked person indeed would force a dreadful pair of pants on the legs and lower torso of somebody else. But to force your dreadful singing voice on somebody, or even a crowd of people, is one of the world’s most wicked crimes, and at that moment Carmelita Spats opened her mouth and afflicted the crew of the Carmelita with her wickedness. Carmelita’s singing voice was loud, like a siren, and high-pitched, like a squeaky door, and extremely off-pitch, as if all of the notes in the musical scale were pushing up against one another, all trying to sound at the same time. Her singing voice was mushy, as if someone had filled her mouth with mashed potatoes before she sang, and filled with vibrato, which is the Italian term for a voice that wavers as it sings, as if someone were shaking Carmelita very vigorously as she began her song. Even the most dreadful of voices can be tolerated if it is performing a good song, but I’m sad to say that Carmelita Spats had written the song herself and that it was just as dreadful as her singing voice.

Sophie knew they should get up and search, but her body felt like it had been molded from mashed potatoes. The best she could do was lean her head on Keefe’s shoulder, trying to stay warm in the chilly evening wind. “Awwww, you guys look so cute!” Alvar said, stumbling toward them a few minutes later. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt cuddle time,” he added as Sophie scrambled away. Sophie was sure her cheeks were redder than the sky, especially when she realized Biana was there too. She pulled her soggy hair forward to cover her face. “It’s cold here.

The white picket trellis was covered in climbing vines, and the soft, brown weedless soil was covered with winter squash peeking out from underneath velvety dark-green leaves. The island breeze carried the scent of Gran's rosemary plants. I went into the potting shed, grabbed the scissors, and snipped a bunch of rosemary. I could use it in the butter for the mashed potatoes that would be served with the fried chicken. I looked around at her herbs and listened to the tinkle of the wind chimes' sand dollars. I snipped some parsley and thyme. Those herbs would add depth or brightness to any dish. I also plucked a half-dozen bright-yellow lemons to add to the fish dishes.

Moles inspected and cleared for duty. Facemask applied, pores emptied. Feel like my face has lost weight. Made massive fish pie – white sauce from jar, and children have been brainwashed over the years into thinking mashed potatoes should be lumpy, so edible – gave some to them for tea, froze remaining eight portions with sense of contentment I do not expect to feel again this side of the grave.

but my brain is like mashed potato.

as sharp as a mashed potato sandwich,

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can. If you loved Alice Hoffman’s bestselling novel Practical Magic, read on for an excerpt from the prequel: THE RULES OF MAGIC See where the magic began—available from Simon & Schuster.

I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.” “Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile. “Yeah?” “Shut the hell up about potatoes.” “But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.” “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while youeat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches. “I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive. I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?” He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.” Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.

There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.

They’d better be serving mashed potatoes, or I’m staging a goddamned riot.

In this case, with mashed potatoes. “It’s not about the potatoes!

It was part deference to Mrs. Traynor, part force of habit. I was so used to feeding Thomas, whose vegetables had to be mashed to a paste and hidden under mounds of potato, or secreted in bits of pasta. Every fragment we got past him felt like a little victory.

There isn't a menu, only a few daily specials. You might get some molecular gastronomy or classic French food or meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but it's always amazing." "Today they have family-style broasted chicken. The best in the state," Doug said. "Broasted?" "Fried, but under pressure. I don't really know what magic happens, but its extra juicy and crunchy.

ersatz Fleisch, meaning fake meat made from cooked rice mashed and fried in mutton fat, or ersatz Fisch, which was also mashed rice but mixed with onions and the oil from tinned fish. Baking bread became challenging as wheat supplies were mostly diverted to the army, but housewives swapped ideas for substituting ground horse chestnuts or pea meal or potato starch.

. . . the fact that people are starving and dying of thirst all around the world has nothing to do with whether or not I eat all of my mashed potato, and everything to do with the fact that billions of us are refusing to build infrastructure that can distribute the earth's resources lovingly and mindfully.

now, and I went to a café in the Black district and loaded up on deep-fried chicken and shrimp, dirty rice, Cajun fries, mashed potatoes with milk gravy, and a bucket of ice cream. I met Helen and Hawthorne at a picnic table by the bayou in City Park. Hawthorne ate like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks. “What’s the average lifespan around here?” he asked. “We don’t keep records,” Helen said.

I’m not being negative, she said. I just want to live somewhere I can get good coffee and not have to see nature and everyone doesn’t look like they were made out of mashed potato.

For lunch, we had mystery meat and instant mashed potatoes. I hate instant mashed potatoes. They taste like paste. I have never eaten paste, but I know kids who have. They say it tastes like instant mashed potatoes.

Of course! Do you want mashed potatoes, or are you you doing the low carb thing still?

The aunts had their schedule, to which they kept no matter what. They took their walk in the morning, then read and wrote in their journals, then had lunch - the same lunch every day - mashed parsnips and potatoes, noodle pudding, and apple tart for dessert. They napped in the afternoon and did their business at twilight, should anybody come to the backdoor. They always had their supper in the kitchen - beans and toast, soup and crackers - and they kept the lights turned low, to save on electricity.

The menu was full of classic American cuisine—bone-in ribeyes with garlic mashed potatoes, cedar plank salmon served with risotto and drizzled with lemon butter, smoked sausage, venison medallions, and game hens served with grilled vegetables and wild rice. Free-range herb roasted chicken with roasted potatoes. Porterhouse steaks, seared and served with steak fries and creamed spinach. Sweet corn soup topped with fresh herbs. To finish it off, dark chocolate cake layered with velvety ganache and served with a side of vanilla ice cream. Rustic wood beams

The other major downfall is there’s no way I’ll be able to gorge on mashed potatoes in this thing, and I really fucking love mashed potatoes.

It's a creamy lobster mashed potato, but it's so much more than that. She can taste the the sweet meat of the shellfish, the salinity of the butter, the earthiness of finely chopped chives. The potatoes are soft, lighter than air, almost like they've been whipped for hours. Eden determines that he's used brie instead of cheddar, giving the whole thing a much milder taste.

There are some things, after all, that Sally knew for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

Excuse me, Judgey McJudgerson, but I have pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes. That’ll be two vegetables on my plate.

One night, Hayes went home after work and decided he would cook dinner for them. Ainsworth, stuck at work on a conference call, was running late. When she finally got home, dinner was nearly ready, but Ainsworth was wiped out and declared that she wanted to decompress in a bath. “Give me ten minutes,” she said. After a while, Hayes went upstairs to the bathroom to see what was taking so long. Ainsworth was still soaking in the tub. Hayes was hungry. He’d prepared a shepherd’s pie, a casserole-style combination of ground beef, mashed potatoes, and peas, and he wanted to eat it before it got cold. Ainsworth asked for a few more minutes. Ten minutes passed. Hayes marched back upstairs and dumped the pie into the water. Ainsworth, stunned, sat in the bath, peas bobbing around her. At work the next day, Davies asked Hayes how his night had been. Hayes took the casual question literally, and without reserve or the slightest sense of faux pas told Davies what had happened. Within days, the pie-in-the-bath story had bounced all over the City’s trading and brokerage floors. It would continue to circulate for more than a decade.

I try to think of something else to say, but my brain is like mashed potato.

What's strange is that small changes upset me immensely and always have done. A tree trimmed outside my house, the reorganization of a supermarket aisle, a new haircut, an updated app format. I cried for hours when they "new and improved" the recipe for the mashed potato I eat every Monday night. But the big stuff? The deaths, the tragedies, the life-changing shifts that rock everyone else to their core? That's when I'm cool, calm and collected. It's why I had to give three speeches at my own parents' funeral, and also--I'm assuming--why I heard my great-uncle Joseph call me an "empty robot" under his breath when I sat back down again. I don't understand it, but there's just something in me that knows how to stand still when the earth shatters.

I turned to the plates and scooped out the shepherd's pie. As I broke through the thin crust on the mashed potatoes, the most amazing aroma enveloped me. A similar version was one of Mom's favorites; it was one dish she never burned, never oversalted, and always made into a celebration. Jane and I used to fight over seconds. But tonight it was mine---and it was better than Mom's. I always added a bunch of oregano and cinnamon to the tomato base to give it extra richness. And for this pie I'd used more vegetables, mincing them super fine, and used a bit of grass-fed ground beef rather than relying exclusively on the lamb---the first naturally thickened the base, and the second softened the taste.

Mom's bone structure put the white mom's to shame. Her cheekbones were so there and lushly sculpted that they made the white mom's face look like mashed potatoes from a box. Not that the white mom was ugly. Her face just didn't exude the foreign-lady sexiness the way Mom's did. The white mom's face exuded Puritanism. Margarine. Thrift. The absence of fun.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

Mrs. O’Brien’s Shepherd’s Pie Recipe Ingredients: 5 cups mashed, boiled potatoes (could be reduced to 4 cups)* 1/2 cup sour cream 2 ounces cream cheese 2 tablespoons butter, softened, divided 1 egg yolk 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1-1/2 teaspoon olive oil 1 pound ground lamb (We substituted ground chicken. You could also use ground beef or turkey.) 1 pinch salt and ground black pepper to taste 1 (16 ounce) can stewed tomatoes with juice, chopped 1 small yellow onion, chopped 1 small carrot, peeled and chopped 1/2 cup peas (frozen or fresh) 1 cup Irish stout beer (such as Guinness(R)) 1 cube beef bouillon (we used chicken bouillon) 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese 2 teaspoons smoked paprika (optional) * 1 tsp. liquid smoke (optional) * Directions: -Stir cooked potatoes, sour cream, cream cheese, 1 tablespoon butter, egg yolk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon black pepper together in a bowl until smooth. -Heat olive oil in a cast iron skillet or nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add ground lamb (or meat). Reduce heat to medium, and cook, stirring frequently, until browned, 4 to 5 minutes. Pour off excess grease and season meat with salt and black pepper to taste. -Add stewed tomatoes with juice, onion, and carrot into meat mixture; Stir and simmer until vegetables are tender, 5 to 10 minutes. Add peas; reduce heat to low and continue cooking, stirring frequently, 2 to 3 minutes. -Add one teaspoon of liquid smoke to meat mixture. Mix thoroughly. -Heat beer in a saucepan over medium heat; add (beef) bouillon cube. Cook and stir beer mixture until bouillon dissolves, about 5 minutes. - Melt 1 tablespoon butter in a separate pan over medium-low heat. Whisk flour into butter until it thickens, about 1 minute. -Stir beer mixture and Worcestershire sauce into flour mixture until gravy is smooth and thickened, 2 to 3 minutes. Stir gravy into meat mixture and simmer until mixture thickens, at least 5 minutes. -Set top oven rack roughly 6 inches from the oven broiler and preheat the broiler. Grease a 9x12-inch baking dish. - Pour (meat) mixture into the prepared baking dish. -Spoon mashed potatoes over (meat) mixture, covering like a crust. Sprinkle cheddar cheese and paprika evenly over mashed potatoes. -Broil in the preheated oven until the crust browns and the cheese is melted, 4 to 5 minutes. -Cool for about 5 minutes before serving. NOTES: We thought the smoked paprika added little flavor to the original recipe.  We added liquid smoke to the meat and it gave it a nice smoky flavor. Next time, we’ll reduce the amount of mashed potatoes to four cups.  We thought the layer of potatoes was a little too thick. (But if you love mashed potatoes, five cups would work ☺  )

What I was doing was small potatoes, in the general scheme of legally shaky endeavors. But the IRS liked going after the small potatoes. The small potatoes put up less of a fight when you mashed them.

Todd had dinner at Danny’s that night. Danny’s mother served fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Then she and Danny’s father argued all through dinner about where to go on their vacation, and whether or not they should save the money and buy a couch instead. Danny seemed really embarrassed about his parents’ loud arguing. But Todd didn’t mind it at all. He was so happy to relax and eat and not worry about finding any long, purple worms on his plate or in his glass.

Vultures!” Joe cried with his mouth full. “Go away! We’re not dead yet.” “They aren’t vultures,” said the Professor, “but boobies.” “How do you know they’re boobies? They haven’t done anything stupid yet.” “It’s only what they’re called, Joe.” “They certainly look beautiful in flight,” said Danny. “Look how their wings catch the air currents.” “They’d look more beautiful in a plate with gravy and mashed potatoes,” Joe grinned. “I don’t think you’d enjoy them. They are fish-eaters, and they have a strong, fishy taste,” said the Professor. “We couldn’t cook them in the raft anyway,” Danny added. “Gee, that’s right,” said Joe. “We haven’t any potatoes.

Jake and Sully My mother turns to Jake. “What about you? Keeping out of trouble?” “I haven’t knocked up anyone if that’s what you’re asking,” he mumbles, shoveling a fork full of mashed potatoes into his mouth. My mother leans over and whaps him with a dishtowel. “That’s not funny.

Two months later, Gail brought Bill home to meet her parents, and Beryl, a nervous mama having heard so much about the gallant Navy boy, served up her best pot roast with onions, a heap of buttery mashed potatoes with Gail’s favorite gravy, and boiled carrots for Sunday dinner. Before dinner was served, they sat on the porch and made homemade ice cream together. Gail sat on the ice cream bucket while Bill churned—abiding the flirting of Baby Lou and worldly Laila, though married with a baby. The Navy boy couldn’t care less about the two sisters because he was busy pouring ice cubes and salt into the bucket, soon hidden again under Gail’s skirt. Coalbert, the working boy, accompanied by his cute girlfriend, Ivy, wasn’t going to be outdone by a crew cut. He started making pig squeals and then said, “Come on, piggy, I wanna kiss you!” This was the story that humiliated Gail the most. She hated when Coalbert told stories from their Arkansas childhood. “What’s with him?” Bill looked at Gail. Coalbert took over and explained how Gail had fallen in love with the baby pigs they had bought to ward off starvation in Western Grove. “She’d run chasing them through the mud and shit, ‘Come on, piggy, I wanna kiss you!’” Gail got off the ice cream bucket and walked into the house. Bill laughed and stayed on the porch with Coalbert and the sisters, shooting the breeze and catching up with stories to embarrass Gail.

meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, and Jell-O with bananas—

From gilt to gold, from glass to gems,” said Bernard, piling mashed potatoes and peas on the back of his fork. “Ingenuity bred wealth, and now wealth is breeding art. We could call it the Tiffany Imperative for each son to exceed his father.

Once the entrées have been selected for both the noon and dinner meal, consider the entrée for the main meal first and then the entrées for the other meals; choose the accompanying vegetables and potatoes, rice, or pasta on the basis of their color, form, texture, and flavor. A colorful vegetable in whole, sliced, diced, or mashed form makes the meal more attractive. Crisp vegetables complement a soft or creamy main dish. Next, select salads that contrast with the rest of the meal in color, flavor, and texture.

Then she dropped the shepherd's pie with an enormous bang, globs of mince and mashed potato exploded everywhere, and our family was over, just like that.

Peas were for pussies. Real soldiers used mashed potato. With extra gravy.

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

I want to marry your sister,” he announced after he and Rupert had consumed the better part of a chicken, along with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn, at the simple table in Rupert’s kitchen. Lily had no illusions that Caleb meant what he said. It was just that even he wouldn’t have the gall to stand there flat-footed and tell Rupert he wanted to keep his sister as a mistress. He and Rupert each took a cigar and lit up. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?” Lily demanded, slamming the cast-iron skillet she’d been about to scour back onto the stove top. Caleb leaned forward in the fog of blue smoke that curled between him and Rupert and said confidentially, “I’ve compromised her, you see. There’s nothing to do but tie the knot before she’s ruined.” Lily would have exploded if she hadn’t been so surprised at Rupert’s reaction. He should have been angry—outraged, even—but he only sat back in his chair and puffed on that damnable cigar. “I see,” he said. “I will not marry this—this pony soldier!” Lily raved. “He’s only fooling, anyway! Do you hear me, Rupert? There will be no wedding!” Rupert assessed her thoughtfully. “Is it true that he’s compromised you?” Lily’s face was red as an ember. She couldn’t have answered that question to save her life. “There might be a child,” he reasoned. “Did you ever think of that?” “Yes,” Caleb collaborated. “Did you ever think of that?” Lily groped for a chair and sank into it. Pregnancy was a possibility she hadn’t once considered. She’d been too wrapped up in her problems for that. “Shut up, both of you,” she murmured, feeling ill. “I think you’d better marry the major,” said Rupert. “I think I’d sooner marry the devil,” countered Lily. Caleb chuckled. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Rupert frowned. “Personally, I think she needs a spanking.” “I agree,” said Caleb. “Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here? And it would take a bigger man than either of you to get the best of me.” Caleb leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a challenge?” “No,” Lily said, and the word took a great piece of her pride with it as it left her mouth. “I thought not,” said Caleb.

I want to marry your sister,” he announced after he and Rupert had consumed the better part of a chicken, along with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn, at the simple table in Rupert’s kitchen. Lily had no illusions that Caleb meant what he said. It was just that even he wouldn’t have the gall to stand there flat-footed and tell Rupert he wanted to keep his sister as a mistress. He and Rupert each took a cigar and lit up. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?” Lily demanded, slamming the cast-iron skillet she’d been about to scour back onto the stove top. Caleb leaned forward in the fog of blue smoke that curled between him and Rupert and said confidentially, “I’ve compromised her, you see. There’s nothing to do but tie the knot before she’s ruined.” Lily would have exploded if she hadn’t been so surprised at Rupert’s reaction. He should have been angry—outraged, even—but he only sat back in his chair and puffed on that damnable cigar. “I see,” he said. “I will not marry this—this pony soldier!” Lily raved. “He’s only fooling, anyway! Do you hear me, Rupert? There will be no wedding!” Rupert assessed her thoughtfully. “Is it true that he’s compromised you?” Lily’s face was red as an ember. She couldn’t have answered that question to save her life. “There might be a child,” he reasoned. “Did you ever think of that?” “Yes,” Caleb collaborated. “Did you ever think of that?” Lily groped for a chair and sank into it. Pregnancy was a possibility she hadn’t once considered. She’d been too wrapped up in her problems for that. “Shut up, both of you,” she murmured, feeling ill. “I think you’d better marry the major,” said Rupert. “I think I’d sooner marry the devil,” countered Lily. Caleb chuckled. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Rupert frowned. “Personally, I think she needs a spanking.” “I agree,” said Caleb. “Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here? And it would take a bigger man than either of you to get the best of me.” Caleb leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a challenge?” “No,” Lily said, and the word took a great piece of her pride with it as it left her mouth. “I thought not,” said Caleb. “Don’t push your luck,” said Lily. Nothing

The menu: legendary deep-fried Turkeyzilla, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans. The theme: dysfunction. “So,” Elysia said to Lex’s parents with her ever-friendly grin, “how are you?” “How do you think they are?” Ferbus whispered. She kicked him under the table. “I mean—um—what do you do? For a living?” Lex’s mother, who hadn’t said much, continued to stare down the table at the sea of black hoodies while picking at her potatoes. Lex’s father cleared his throat. “I’m a contractor,” he said. “And she’s a teacher.” “Omigod! I wanted to be a teacher!” Elysia turned to Mrs. Bartleby. “Do you love it?” “Hmm?” She snapped back to attention and smiled vacantly at Elysia. “Oh, yes. I do. The kids are a nice distraction.” “From what?” Pip asked. Bang smacked her forehead. Lex squeezed Driggs’s hand even tighter, causing him to choke on his stuffing. He coughed and hacked until the offending morsel flew out of his mouth, landing in Sofi’s glass of water. “Ewww!” she squealed. “Drink around it,” Pandora scolded. “So! I hear New York City is lovely this time of year.” Well, it looks nice, I guess,” Mr. Bartleby said. “But shoveling out the driveway is a pain in the neck. The girls used to help, but now . . .” Sensing the impending awkwardness, Corpp jumped in. “Well, Lex has been a wonderful addition to our community. She’s smart, friendly, a joy to be around—” “And don’t you worry about the boyfriend,” Ferbus said, pointing to Driggs. “I keep him in line.” Mrs. Bartleby’s eyes widened, looking at Lex and then Driggs. “You have a—” she sputtered. “He’s your—” Ferbus went white. “They didn’t know?” “Oops!” said Uncle Mort in a theatrical voice, getting up from the table. “Almost forgot the biscuits!” “Let me help you with those,” Lex said through clenched teeth, following him to the counter. A series of pained hugs and greetings had ensued when her parents arrived—but the rest of the guests showed up so soon thereafter that Lex hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to them, much to her relief. Still, she hadn’t stopped seething. “What were you thinking?” Uncle Mort gave her a reproachful look. “I was thinking that your parents were probably going to feel more lonely and depressed this Thanksgiving than they’ve ever felt in their lives, and that maybe we could help alleviate some of that by hosting a dinner featuring the one and only daughter they have left.” “A dinner of horrors? You know my track record with family gatherings!” He ignored her. “Here we are!” he said, turning back to the table with a giant platter. “Biscuits aplenty!” Lex grunted and took her seat. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” she whispered to Driggs. “Me neither,” he replied. “I think my hand is broken in three places.” “Sorry.” “And your dad seems to be shooting me some sort of a death stare.” Lex glanced at her father. “That’s bad.” “Think he brought the shotgun?” “It’s entirely possible.” “All I’m saying,” Ferbus went on, trying to redeem himself and failing, “is that we all look out for one another here.” Mr. Bartleby looked at him. Ferbus began to sweat. “Because, you know. We all need somebody. Uh, to lean on.” “Stop talking,” Bang signed. Elysia gave Lex’s parents a sympathetic grin. “I think what my idiot partner is trying to say—through the magic of corny song lyrics, for some reason—is that you don’t need to worry about Lex. She’s like a sister to me.” She realized her poor choice of words as a pained look came to Mrs. Bartleby’s face. “Or an especially close cousin.” She shut her mouth and stared at her potatoes. “Frig.” Lex was now crushing Driggs’s hand into a fine paste. Other than the folding chairs creaking and Pip obliviously scraping the last bits of food off his plate, the table was silent. “Good beans!” Pip threw in.

Vane passed the mashed potatoes across Bride to Fury, who stared at them with a fierce frown. "What are these?" he asked. "Potatoes," Vane told him. "What did they do to them?" "Just eat them, Fury," Vane said. "You'll like them, trust me." Patrick snorted. "Where are you from that you've never seen mashed potatoes before?" "Mars," Fury said as he frowned at the way the potatoes clung to the spoon.