Delta40
05-07-2011, 07:27 PM
She bought a 5kg bag of potatoes. Lord knows why since there are only two of us in the house and she eats them more than me. Have you ever noticed that pre-packaged tatties are not quite as attractive as the loose ones? I have and that is why I pick each potato up, feel its husky skin against mine, squeeze it ever so slightly as if to check a world of nature's secrets are locked within. Ruby Lous are my favourite but I haven't had them for a while.
So I b****ed at her for carting a 5kg bag of crap potatoes up the hill from the local IGA. The bench vibrated under the weight as she slung the bag down violently.
'Oh F**k off then. Next time you want something from the shop, you go.'
'Sorry. I didn't mean it like that but look. Just look at these potatoes.' I spilled the bag and the knobbly tubers rolled out. All shapes and sizes. Old skins, eyes and blemishes. They wouldn't keep long and I knew that 5kg is one hell of a mountain of mash.
She shrugged her shoulders. 'They look alright to me. Don't you know you can never have enough potatoes?'
'Are you going to do them then?'
'Nah. I don't feel like it now. That walk to the shop wore me out.'
So that was it. She went to her room and left me standing in the gloomy kitchen to pick out the worst ones and use them for tonight's dinner. I couldn't find the vegie peeler. I rattled through cutlery and slammed each drawer. Finally, I decided against the mash. Mash was her favourite, not mine and I no longer cared that potato bake would upset her.
I grumbled inwardly. Mothers Day tomorrow and this is my gift? All these years and nothing had changed, like the old fluffy slippers I was wearing. I scrubbed the aging potatoes under the cold tap flinging them into the bowl with each resounding thought. Pain in the butt kid. I don't ask for much. Just a few potatoes but what do I get? I threw the last ones in and then hacked them as the same stream of thoughts sliced through my mind.
I layered the potato rounds in the stained pyrex dish with dollops of cream and french onion soup mix and then another layer. Marilyn Manson blared from her room. The room where even toadstools wouldn't grow in case they caught something. I'd tell you about it but the potato bake would be ready by the time I got finished. How do these things called young women exist in fungully smelly rooms and look beautiful on the outside?
I put the bake in the oven and the rest of the potatoes in the basket under the bench. There was liquid at the bottom of the plastic bag they came in so I lifted the squelchy ones out, still cussing my daughter.
She emerged some time later, her home cut, black dyed hair sticking in all directions. 'When's dinner gonna be ready?'
'When the potatoes are done I guess.'
'Uh duh! How long will that be?'
'Why don't you check and see!' I shuffled into the lounge, imagining the odds of her buying me a pair of fluffy slippers as a present. Very slim I fumed, still smarting from the fact that here I was, cooking her dinner for the millionth time. I heard a loud bang then she swore. 'Jesus f***king Christ! Look what's happened.'
We bent over the oven door. The pyrex dish had snapped in two and the creamy concotion was sizzling on the surface of my crusted oven. She wept then. Hard. She wailed that stuff like this always happened to her. 'It's just not fair!'
I hugged her while she cried her heart out. Her black eye make-up leaked over my t-shirt as I held her shuddering frame.
'It's ok sweetie. They're just potatoes. I haven't even used the nicest ones yet.'
'It's not that. I really wanted potato bake and just lately, everytime I need something, it goes all wrong!'
'You actually wanted potato bake?' I screwed my mouth up and suppressed my mirth. I looked constipated, if nothing else. I knew if I laughed, the moment would explode harder than the pyrex dish. That's just how she is. 'It doesn't matter. Look, you said we could never have enough potatoes and you were right! I was wrong, see? Now why don't we let the oven cool and we'll clear up the mess later?'
She sniffled, 'Ok. Mum? Could we just have mashed potatoes instead?'
Fluffy mash vs fluffy slippers. I kissed her cheek. 'That's a great idea. I'll peel if you do the mashing!' The mascara streaked young woman who smelt of things unknown, smiled. She hugged me again. 'I love you Mum.' She went to clean up and left me standing there in the brilliant light of the kitchen, holding the best of the worst. A big, soft, aging potato.
I hummed as I peeled.
So I b****ed at her for carting a 5kg bag of crap potatoes up the hill from the local IGA. The bench vibrated under the weight as she slung the bag down violently.
'Oh F**k off then. Next time you want something from the shop, you go.'
'Sorry. I didn't mean it like that but look. Just look at these potatoes.' I spilled the bag and the knobbly tubers rolled out. All shapes and sizes. Old skins, eyes and blemishes. They wouldn't keep long and I knew that 5kg is one hell of a mountain of mash.
She shrugged her shoulders. 'They look alright to me. Don't you know you can never have enough potatoes?'
'Are you going to do them then?'
'Nah. I don't feel like it now. That walk to the shop wore me out.'
So that was it. She went to her room and left me standing in the gloomy kitchen to pick out the worst ones and use them for tonight's dinner. I couldn't find the vegie peeler. I rattled through cutlery and slammed each drawer. Finally, I decided against the mash. Mash was her favourite, not mine and I no longer cared that potato bake would upset her.
I grumbled inwardly. Mothers Day tomorrow and this is my gift? All these years and nothing had changed, like the old fluffy slippers I was wearing. I scrubbed the aging potatoes under the cold tap flinging them into the bowl with each resounding thought. Pain in the butt kid. I don't ask for much. Just a few potatoes but what do I get? I threw the last ones in and then hacked them as the same stream of thoughts sliced through my mind.
I layered the potato rounds in the stained pyrex dish with dollops of cream and french onion soup mix and then another layer. Marilyn Manson blared from her room. The room where even toadstools wouldn't grow in case they caught something. I'd tell you about it but the potato bake would be ready by the time I got finished. How do these things called young women exist in fungully smelly rooms and look beautiful on the outside?
I put the bake in the oven and the rest of the potatoes in the basket under the bench. There was liquid at the bottom of the plastic bag they came in so I lifted the squelchy ones out, still cussing my daughter.
She emerged some time later, her home cut, black dyed hair sticking in all directions. 'When's dinner gonna be ready?'
'When the potatoes are done I guess.'
'Uh duh! How long will that be?'
'Why don't you check and see!' I shuffled into the lounge, imagining the odds of her buying me a pair of fluffy slippers as a present. Very slim I fumed, still smarting from the fact that here I was, cooking her dinner for the millionth time. I heard a loud bang then she swore. 'Jesus f***king Christ! Look what's happened.'
We bent over the oven door. The pyrex dish had snapped in two and the creamy concotion was sizzling on the surface of my crusted oven. She wept then. Hard. She wailed that stuff like this always happened to her. 'It's just not fair!'
I hugged her while she cried her heart out. Her black eye make-up leaked over my t-shirt as I held her shuddering frame.
'It's ok sweetie. They're just potatoes. I haven't even used the nicest ones yet.'
'It's not that. I really wanted potato bake and just lately, everytime I need something, it goes all wrong!'
'You actually wanted potato bake?' I screwed my mouth up and suppressed my mirth. I looked constipated, if nothing else. I knew if I laughed, the moment would explode harder than the pyrex dish. That's just how she is. 'It doesn't matter. Look, you said we could never have enough potatoes and you were right! I was wrong, see? Now why don't we let the oven cool and we'll clear up the mess later?'
She sniffled, 'Ok. Mum? Could we just have mashed potatoes instead?'
Fluffy mash vs fluffy slippers. I kissed her cheek. 'That's a great idea. I'll peel if you do the mashing!' The mascara streaked young woman who smelt of things unknown, smiled. She hugged me again. 'I love you Mum.' She went to clean up and left me standing there in the brilliant light of the kitchen, holding the best of the worst. A big, soft, aging potato.
I hummed as I peeled.