When I make mashed potatoes I don’t make just a little bit. I make a massive pot of them because who doesn’t love left over mashed potatoes – Croquettes, potato pancakes, shepherd’s pie?
About a month ago, I made a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and other good things. The following evening we had the leftover beef with re-heated mashed potatoes and leftover gravy, etc. I was on track to use all the potatoes in a total of 4 days, except someone threw a Monkey Wrench into my plans (I don’t even remember exactly what that monkey wrench was anymore though) and suddenly those mashed potatoes became a problem. And part of the problem was the fact that we have two refrigerators – one for daily stuff and the other for drinks mostly but also leftovers in larger containers.
On the Day of the Monkey Wrench, I probably thought they would keep for an extra day. But the day after that I totally forgot about them.
Two days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I went to the spare fridge for a drink and “Shit! I completely forgot about the potatoes! I should use them up tomorrow for sure.”
Three days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I came home from the grocery store and opened the spare fridge to put in some drinks and “Shit! I completely forgot about the potatoes! I’m not sure if they are good anymore because of the cream and butter. Well, I don’t have time right now to toss them out but I will get to it in an hour or so.
Four Days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I never opened the spare fridge.
Five days after: I opened the fridge, “Fuck! Someone needs to throw them out before they get nasty.
Six days after: The Viking opens the spare fridge,
“What’s in this big pot?”
Me: “Mashed potatoes, dammit! I’ll be there in a minute to throw it out and wash the pot.”
Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I go for a drink. Ugh!! Those potatoes are probably working on becoming a science experiment and I’m just not up to dealing with that today. I’ll handle it tomorrow.
Eight days: The Viking notices the same pot in the same position.
“Have you completely forgotten these potatoes?”
Me: “Shit! Yes! I’ll be right there.”
Nine days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I find the pot and moan because it’s got to be gross by now. Maybe if I wait little longer The Viking will take care of it.
Ten days: I purposely refuse to see the pot when I grab a drink.
Eleven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: Ditto.
Twelve days: Ditto.
Thirteen days: Ditto.
Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: Ditto.
Nineteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:
The Viking: “Fucksakes! Is that still the mashed potatoes?!”
Me (slightly hopeful that he’ll throw them out and wash the pot): “Yes! I keep forgetting about them!”
Twenty days: I hear something whispering my name from the spare fridge. It doesn’t sound like something nice, more like a hiss of malevolent evil. I ignore it.
Twenty-One days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:
The Viking stops by the spare fridge and says,
“Do you hear something?”
Me: “Ummm…..no. You must be hearing things.”
Twenty-Four days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: The Viking comes in the house and says….”*A friend from Denmark is going to be in Calgary this weekend. I’ve invited him and his co-workers for dinner.”
Me (surprised and already getting anxious): “What?! You invited them here?!”
Him: “Yes. I haven’t seen Soren for years!”
Me: “Fuck.”
Twenty-Six days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I have no idea what to make for dinner for the Danes.
The Viking: “Clam Chowder. They would really like it.”
Me: “Really? How can my land-locked clam chowder compare to Danish Right-out-of-the-Ocean Clam Chowder?”
Him: “Trust me. They’ll like it.”
Twenty-Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: I need that mashed potato pot for the Clam Chowder. Sigh. It’s going to be so gross. Nothing smells worse than rotten potatoes…..except maybe a dead body but I’m only guessing because I’ve never smelled a dead body. Wait. There was that dead mouse and it did smell pretty bad but I think the potatoes are going to smell worse because there are more potatoes than one dead mouse.
Apparently, The Viking didn’t feel the need to take care of the mess so I had to. I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, squinted my eyes and hauled the pot from the fridge. It was worse than I thought – they had turned all brown and green and made my eyes water.
I suck at keeping the refrigerators organized and free of science experiments.
As for the Clam Chowder. I spent several hours frying bacon, cleaning, peeling and chopping veggies, making broth and taste testing it. I was like Gordon Ramsey but with far worse language, knowing one tiny mistake could ruin the entire thing. When I thought it was pretty good, I called for The Viking to do a taste test. He sipped it, sipped it again and pronounced it good with just a touch more salt and pepper. But……
Him: Where is the corn?
Me: Corn? You don’t put corn in Clam Chowder. But now that you mention it, it would probably taste good. Unfortunately, I don’t have any corn at the moment.
Him: Where is the red and white stuff?
Me: Red and white stuff? I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Him: Crab! Where’s the crab?
Me: You don’t put Crab in Clam Chowder. You put Clams in Clam Chowder.
Him: You made some soup once for me and Adam and it had corn and crab and shrimp. I thought that’s what you were making.
Me: That’s not Clam Chowder, that’s Seafood Chowder! I didn’t think you even cared much for that. You said, when I specifically asked, “It’s okay.” Which is the same thing as saying “It’s passable but just barely.”
Him: I liked it!
Me: That’s not what you said! You said, “It’s O.K.A.Y.” Which isn’t the same thing as “I like it”!
Him: For fucks-sakes!
Me: Did I just spend all day making Clam Chowder for Danish experts and you wanted Seafood Chowder? Geezus! Do I need to start all over?!”
Him: NO! You don’t have to do a fucking thing! This is fine.
Me: Gawd save me! It’s FINE?! That’s it?! FINE?!
And that’s why I needed to start drinking 4 hours before the Danes were due to arrive. Being drunk is the only way to put a pot of ‘fine’ in front of experts.
*What the fuck!? Why is this quotation mark going the wrong way?! I’ve tried to fix it 8 times already!