There is an odd phenomenon surrounding the making of mashed potatoes. There is truly a fine line between the perfect amount of milk and…
well I would have to say:
Yes, you guessed it. I was there. They were really perfect. But I could not leave well enough alone and had to add that one little drop more of milk. And the next think I knew I was preparing boxed rice pilaf (on a holiday, that’s simply a crime!) and dumping those potatoes before Gary got home to witness my failure.
But here’s the thing. It’s not about the mashed potatoes. Or the rice. Or the fact that you find yourself cooking chicken soup and brisket on labor day as if someone pulled the switch on your summer and sent you tumbling down the Days of Awe water slide.
It’s about stopping and taking a deep breath and remembering that even though it is 85 degrees out and you have a Chambers Stove from the 1930s that is causing your kitchen to feel like a sauna; traditions, community, family and friends are what the whole thing is about.
Like the friend that picks up your parents’ synagogue tickets for you because you were too harried to get there yourself. Or the one who wakes up to remember that she is out of flour but she always bakes you a challah and makes sure to get to the store early enough to make you one again this year AND have her son deliver it to you. Or it is sitting in Synagogue (yes in that state of post ruining the potatoes shame) and looking to your left and right to see not just both your parents, but both of your in-laws as well.
So to all the members of the Tribe that read this blog, L’Shana Tovah. May you have a good, sweet year.
And just a tip, go light on the milk in the mashed potatoes.