Our computer has been in the shop all week, so it's been near-impossible to get a new post up. But what I AM able to do is share last year's Thanksgiving post with you all again--the Reader's Digest version. If you want the full, gory story,
click here.
POISON POTATOES: REASONS TO BE THANKFUL (THAT I DON'T COOK FOR YOU)
Thanksgiving weekend ended up being full of
adventures, many culinary. I threw myself into the deep end of the pool
on Saturday: Mom’s family was getting twenty-five of us together and I
volunteered to bring the sweet potatoes. To be fair, I hadn’t realized
there would be twenty-five people when I volunteered, but when I found
out the night before, I was brave and just bought more potatoes.
I
had made mashed yams once before, a few weeks prior, when I attempted
to make baked sweet potatoes. We had been visiting my parents, and eager
to show them my new cooking interest, I had found a recipe online for a
twice-baked sweet potato. The instructions were deceptively simple:
bake, scoop out, mix ginger and raisins, bake again. What ended up
happening was that after an hour in the oven, the damn things were still
hard as a rock, so we threw them in the microwave and did them as
ginger-raisin mashed potatoes instead. They turned out really delicious,
and Mom was a great support; I was so frustrated that I couldn’t pull
off this recipe that a certain famous Food Network chef thinks is sooooo
easy. Mom just kept saying (and this is my advice to all of you):
“Potatoes
are funny things; sometimes they’ll cook in no time, and sometimes
they’ll take hours. Don’t bother with that stupid recipe. Throw them in
the microwave.” And her mantra for the evening, chanted at me so I wouldn’t throw the yams out the door:
“It’s not YOU, it’s the potatoes.” In the end, we made a delicious dish, and I felt ready to try them again for the larger family.
Saturday
morning, first thing we did was wash the potatoes. Then Brian
volunteered to cut them up into smaller sections, as I was determined
not to nuke my food in the microwave; we figured, cutting the potatoes
into smaller portions would help them cook faster. We had talked with
some tweeters the night before about just getting pre-cut potatoes, but
a) I didn’t find them, and b) I figured my best bet was to follow my
botched twice-baked recipe again, with the same modifications, because
the end result had been great. After what happened next, I’ll tell you, I
wish I had bought the stupid cut-up potatoes…
Brian
cut his finger open. Even writing this out, three days later, I cringe.
I left the room for two seconds and that’s when I heard his swearing. I
knew what had happened. I thought I was ready for it. I ran in, saw the
blood pouring out of him and the actual fear on his face…and I
panicked. All my First Aid got jumbled in my head, like someone dropping
a deck of playing cards. We managed to rinse the wound, sit him down,
and apply pressure with a clean cloth. But every time we tried to look
at it, it gushed again. What did I do? The only thing I knew how to do: I
called my BFF MJ, who worked as a chef for fifteen years. I made her
come over and assess the wound. She doesn’t live far, and she showed up,
my hero, in mismatched pyjamas, running up the stairs. She suggested
the Brian needed stitches, which Brian flat-out refused to do, so she
suggested keeping an eye on it and seeing what happened. What happened
was, it refused to seal itself, so we went to the pharmacy and got that 2
nd Skin stuff to seal it.
As
Brian lay down for a while, looking pale and really scary, I forged on
with the potatoes. I baked them for an hour, only to find they were
still rock hard. I gave them another thirty minutes, and then discovered
half of them had dried out. Stress and worry got the better of both of
us, and Brian and I had a seriously crabby argument for no good reason
while I tried to salvage the portions of potato that were either
undercooked or cooked, but not dried out. I threw the resulting pulp
into the microwave, feeling like a big cheater.
After
that, though, the potatoes were indeed cooked and there seemed to be a
pretty good yield, though maybe not enough to feed two dozen people. I
mashed and stirred the potatoes, adding some (almond) milk, butter,
raisins, and ginger, but it still tasted like it needed something. In a
moment of inventiveness, I grabbed the maple syrup and gooshed in a
large amount: perfect. They tasted great and I was satisfied. We took
the bowl to dinner and ordered everyone to eat some, as there was,
literally, blood, sweat, and tears in those potatoes. I received
compliments, and somehow the fact that Brian was slowly bleeding to
death seemed worth it. (I kid. Mostly.) There were leftovers and my mom
in particular loaded up a container with them, which made me puff up
with pride.
The
next morning, I crawled out of bed, went to the kitchen in search of
sustenance, saw the maple syrup…and realized something terrible. It was
mouldy. A thick, fuzzy-gelatinous carpet of mould was floating on the
top of the syrup. I think I thought it was frothiness, the day before
when I used it. I don’t know how I didn’t spot it. Brian had woken up
feeling a little sick, and suddenly I was terrified. I snuck into the
art room, shut the door, and called Mom. When she answered, I said,
“Mom, listen to me carefully. Don’t eat the potatoes.” She asked why,
and I told her. She scoffed and said not to worry about it, mould wasn’t
a big deal and no one was sick; why, she’d eaten a big helping of the
potatoes again for breakfast! I blanched, but pretended to find that
reassuring.
Author's note, one year later: no one ever did get sick off those potatoes, but this year I refused to be in charge of them. I'm making a quinoa salad, something I feel much more confident about. The whole family is coming to our house for the meal, but everything is being prepared by other people in their own kitchens. Wait...as I type this out, I suddenly wonder if maybe this is a ploy to stop me from poisoning everyone again...
Oh, well. At least I don't have to cook. Bring on the stuffing.
