Mashed Potatoes: A Side Dish, A Deal Breaker, A Masterpiece of Memories
I have officially reached a meaningful milestone in life: I’ve been asked by siblings and sister-in-laws about how to make one of the most coveted dishes in American holiday history. That’s right, mashed potatoes.
I know, I know, hold the applause.
I’ve somehow made mashed potatoes good enough that my own siblings, the people who were born to be your #1 humbler, are at my doorstep for a recipe. Metaphorically speaking of course. It was actually a text message but for storytelling purposes I want you to imagine me answering my front door with a top-knot and apron and a mixing bowl on my hip.
Now, you may be wondering, how did I get here? On this high pedestal, looking down on those that simply microwave their store-bought containers. I must say, Bob Evans makes a mean mashed potato and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to buying them from time to time for easy meals. But they are not my grandmother’s potatoes, and they are far from my potatoes.
Anyways, back to my accolade.
I was simply a girl who loved mashed potatoes growing up. I was blessed with not one but two grandmothers that made delicious homemade mashed potatoes not just on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but for family dinners sometimes, too. Allow me to detail my resume.
Grandma Sandy’s take on it was methodical. A kitchen aid mixer, a boiling pot of water, neatly peeled potatoes washed and diced. Whatever magic she mixed in post-boiling is a mystery to me, and I was never far from the first in line for a scoop.
“Can I have mashed potatoes” I once asked for my birthday meal. Just the potatoes. No need to worry about the rest.
Grandma Sharon would make hers with a different approach and care. Two spoons were always there: one for her and one for me. Measuring? Forget about it. We tasted it as we went. Butter? Double it. Milk? The evaporated kind.
“More butter?” she’d inquire. “Always,” I’d respond. And we’d drop another stick in.
I can still hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade replaying on the TV in the living room while my sister cries because mom is brushing her hair.
As I grew older and navigated relationships, I quickly found myself wanting to emulate that feeling of home cooking my grandmothers gave me. I wanted to be the wife that could come home from a busy day and throw her hair up and whip something delicious together. Let me just clarify that I am not that put together and 90% of the time it does not go that way.
My first time offering to make mashed potatoes for a holiday came when I was 22 and in my first little home with a man I half-expected to become my husband. I excitedly offered to make mashed potatoes for the thanksgiving we’d host for about 10 guests and seriously underestimated its undertaking.
I had made them before but not for this many people. But I had a plan! I was going to wake up early, wash, peel and dice just like Grandma Sandy, and start the boiling pot of water. Then, I’d check the potatoes with the designated fork set aside to make sure it’s soft enough to start mashing, just like Grandma Sharon.
To my hosting horror, 7 A.M. that thanksgiving, my (now ex) boyfriend’s mother was in my kitchen, with boots covered in cow manure and whatever else she stepped in, and she was cooking.
It’s not horrible that she was cooking. It’s horrible that I had no idea she’d be in my kitchen that early and mashing my beloved potatoes.
YES! She was mashing them! Before they were ever washed or diced or even BOILED.
I stood there in my mismatched pajamas and one sock on and sleepily asked what was happening. The parade hasn’t even started yet, Lisa.
I wish I could more accurately account for what followed but long-story short, I did not make mashed potatoes that year, and I did not end up with that man, and his mother may or may not have been the final straw of that relationship.
It’s not you, it’s me, and that damn massacre of potatoes, I’d explain.
Fast-forward a few timelines and I’m here. I’m married and I’ve hosted enough to know that making the mashed potatoes should happen last, not first, because potatoes brown and the parade will distract me every year like it always has. Butter is not measured conventionally, it’s taste-tested throughout. And for creamier potatoes it’s recommended by the experts (Grandma) to incorporate a can of evaporated milk.
My sister-in-law has since asked for my recipe and most recently, my brother.
This, my friends, is an accomplishment my type-c self has finally achieved. Years of practice, patience, broken dishes that defamed ex mishandled, led me to this moment.
On thanksgiving, I’ll wake up in my own house, with no cow-poop caked boots in sight, and make my way to the kitchen where I will have neatly laid out the tools needed to prepare this coveted dish. My husband will know to stay out of my way but have the coffee ready. The parade will be on the TV. And anyone expected to sit at my table knows not to be in my kitchen regardless of if they are family before I even had my morning pee.
The Recipe
5 lbs of Idaho potatoes – boiled and mashed
1 can of evaporated milk (or 1 cup or whole) slowly incorporated
1 stick of butter (but measure with your heart) that you can melt in the pot used to boil the potatoes while it’s still hot and then pour into your mixing bowl
Salt & pepper (again, just measure with your heart)
and a trusted taste-tester usually in the form of a little granddaughter who has elected herself to be your lifelong shadow but really anybody with a proper appreciation of mashed potatoes will do.