The Tale of Burnt Mashed Potatoes

I love mashed potatoes.

When we go to Popeyes, my side is mashed potatoes.

When we go to Golden Corral, I sometimes load up a plate with only mashed potatoes.

I love them.

The thing is, I rarely make them myself. Unless you count potatoes from a bag. You know, the kind where you just add water and stir?

Totally not the same.

I do, however, make real mashed potatoes for holidays and while they are okay, they don’t taste quite what I want them to be. I add butter. I add milk. I add salt and pepper. But they aren’t like Popeyes potatoes.

Anyway, I got these chicken stock cubes and on the back it said to add it to potato water for an added BOLD taste. Mmm, I could go for bold mashed potatoes. So I decided to try it. I prepared the potatoes, cut them in cubes, stuck them in a pot with water and then…

…well, then I got distracted.

First I started talking to people on Facebook. I even announced that I was making REAL mashed potatoes.

Then I picked up a book and started to read.

And read.

And—

“What’s that smell?” Tom asked.

I sniffed. It smelled like burning. What could possibly be—shit, the potatoes! I tossed my book aside and rushed into the kitchen that was filling with smoke. I peeked in the potato pot and found that all the water had evaporated, leaving the little chunks of potatoes stuck and burning to the bottom of the pan.

“My potatoes!” I yelped, turning off the burner.

Then the downstairs fire alarm went off.

Followed by the upstairs fire alarm.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” Tommy shouted, rushing down the stairs. He does not like loud noises.

“Jesus, Amber, what did you do?” Tom asked, coming into the kitchen. I was surrounded by smoke going, “Oh, nothing amiss here, ha ha…”

He gave me a Look and started opening a bunch of windows.

“This happens a lot when you cook, Mommy,” Natalie said sweetly.

It’s true. I burn a lot.

It’s just, cooking isn’t my thing. At all. I’m not a fan of it. It does not bring me joy. Eating brings me joy. Cooking does not.

Mashed potatoes would have brought me joy.

And now they were burnt.

I tried to salvage some. I added a bunch of butter and milk as the smoke danced around me. The alarms finally went off…and then popped back on.

The poor cat was running around the house in a panic and Tommy was on the couch rocking back and forth.

“How do these taste?” I asked Tom as chaos ensued around me.

Tom took a small bite and made a face. “Burnt.”

I licked the spoon. He was correct.

I picked up my phone and asked Siri, “How do you save burnt potatoes?”

Her response? “You’re certainly entitled to that opinion, Amber.”

?!!

Even my own phone was giving me attitude.

The fire alarms finally stopped and I was left with disgusting potatoes, a troubled son, a frantic cat, and a house that smelled like burning.

I guess it takes talent to burn mashed potatoes because when I mentioned it on Facebook, several people asked me how I managed to do so.

Hi. I’m Amber. And I have ADD in the kitchen.

Please make me some delicious mashed potatoes because apparently I cannot be troubled or patient enough to make my own.

Or I’ll just get a vat of potatoes from Popeyes.