Rockin' the Potato

(and no, that's not a euphemism) 

I would be hard pressed to find an item more offensive in a kitchen than a box of instant mashed potatoes.  It seems like such an affront to everything my poor (inbred?) Irish ancestors worked for.  The potatoes were the easy part of the meal.  It was the matter of coming up with anything else which proved to be the challenge.  A lump of mutton. Maybe some salt fish.  Peat?  Perhaps.  Then Guinness was created, and we know what wonders that did for the advancement of our culture.  But I digress…

I recall a friend of mines mother, upon discovering her daughter had had instant mashed potatoes for the first time at her then boyfriends parents house, exclaiming “How hard is it to boil a f@#king potato and HIT IT?!”

It took me a few years, but now, I couldn’t agree more.

It probably took the extra bit of time to sink in with me because I pretty much avoided la purée des potates for most of my life.  Starchy, bland, gag-inducing,  heaped mounds which always carried the “eat ten more bites of that or you don’t get dessert” clause.

My first few years after leaving home were sheer potatoless bliss.  Of course, they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I guess that’s what caused me to start experimenting with the carb-laden bastards anew.

I had pretty much achieved my appreciative ceiling in the preparation of mashed potatoes, and was in a rut.

And then an angel came unto me and said:  “Oh my god!  You’ve GOT to try this baby food!”

I was out with some coworkers at a swanky restaurant (Diva at the Met, for those Vancouverites who may be wondering) for a celebratory meal, and one of the attendees had her child care cancel on her at the last minute.  She was already dressed and long overdue for a night out, so she said “Screw it!”  and put her little guy in the best clothing she could muster at short notice.

Now, I’m gonna feel a bit guilty here, because I KNOW the chefs prepared an incredible meal.  I’ve yet to go there and be served anything other than sheer, gorgeousness on a plate.  However, the highlight of the meal was the mashed potatoes the staff whipped up for my friends toddler.  They had all the components of every other incarnation of the much-maligned side dish, but they had that certain je ne sais quoi.

My coworkers and I immediately passed around the remaining baby-food, devouring it with a gusto not seen since Goya’s “Saturn”, then returned to the culinary masterpieces on our own plates.

I couldn’t let it go.

I cornered our waiter and asked about the potatoes.

He said he’d check with the kitchen staff.

He came back.

You wanna know what the thing was?

Nutmeg.

Frickin nutmeg.

Whole nutmeg, seconds before assaulting it with a grater.  And no, I don't use all of this at once.

One of the most neglected spices in any pantry, cracked out only at Christmas to dust an eggnog, or go into a cake for god-only-knows what reason.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I can rock a batch of mashed potatoes, and tear into it with that same animalistic fervour that I did on that night out with my coworkers.

Tonight for example, was all about comfort food, and therefore my beloved smashed spuds were on the menu, alongside onions sautéed with fresh Kranjski sausage, and steamed broccoli.   

Green things!  This makes it good for me!

Pink things.  Not so good for me, but oh so good to me.

I went up an additional notch by throwing in a bunch of chopped kale a couple minutes before the potatoes had cooked through, and mashed it all in.  

Butter, milk (didn’t have any), a pinch of fresh ground nutmeg, salt and pepper, and the once hated potatoes become a thing of beauty.

Huzzah for comfort food!

To back up my anti instant mashed potato rant, you may want to check out Jamie Oliver's session in the TED studios about processed food: