THE MASHED POTATO INCIDENT

We recently bought a really nice, three-tiered steamer. At the bottom, a pan for water, then two layers of colander (each with holes for the steam to pour through) and a handsome glass lid. It’s great for vegetables.

Tonight we used it for mashed potato. I love a mashed potato; oodles of lovely butter and soft, crumbling potato. We boiled the potato in the bottom pan and let the steam cook the courgettes and green beans in the top of the steamer. Everything was going really well.

It was my job to do the mashing. I was about to drain the potatoes by holding the base pan over the sink and tipping - that’s my usual method. Provided the boiled potatoes don’t tumble into the sink, it’s a fair technique I think, though tricky to get every last drop of boiling water out of the pan. What’s more, if you’re a glasses-wearer like me, you’ll know the rather obvious problem with holding a pan of near-boiling water in front of your face. Sometimes you just have to peer through the fog and hope for the best.

“Why don’t you use the colander bit?” asked Sammy.

This was, I concluded, a cleverer idea, so I did exactly that. Moments later I was happily shaking the potatoes over the sink, making sure I’d drained as much steaming water as possible. They looked great - just fluffy enough for the masher, so I let them rest on the hob for a moment and swung open the fridge to retrieve the butter. I think Sammy and I have different ideas about how much butter you should use for your mashed potato, so given that I’d been delegated the task tonight, I took matters into my own hands, sliced off two generous portions of lovely butter and dropped them onto the hot potatoes.

As ever, the butter began to melt immediately. I love this part, especially over the hob - it’s as though the butter is so cosy and happy on its bed, it has to curl up and smooth out, gently flowing and melting into the rough cut potatoes beneath. Sammy is allergic to black pepper, but of course at this point, I might have ground some seasoning in to give the mash a little more pep. Not for us though, these days. I yanked open the utensils draw and pulled out the masher.

Squish, press, scoop, tap. It’s a great feeling seeing the yellow butter mix steadily in with the mashed potatoes. A little elbow grease, a little angle of the wrist and it all just merges together in a smooth, delicious mess.

It was at that point a familiar thought occurred to me - one, I think that happens every time I get to make the mashed potato, but I always forget. I tapped the side of the pan with the masher to get the last bits of stuck potato off, and then casually said out loud…

“It’s funny how you always end up with less potato than you think when you’re making mash.”

Sammy peered over to inspect. I put the masher down on the side, then lifted the pan from the hob.

Two things happened at the same time.

One, my lovely wife spluttered into uncontrollable fits of laughter, and two, to my absolute dismay, I realised that the hob was covered in a small mountain of neatly squeezed, hole-shaped tubes… of hot mashed potato! I had accidentally used the colander, and without realising had squeezed half the mash through the holes in the bottom!

I made a whimpering noise and went away to hide myself in my jumper. My face was burning red. Through the muffled fabric I could hear Sammy filming the scene on her phone, still in hysterics. I felt absolutely stupid.

I think life’s like that, you know. Every now and then we do something that takes even us by surprise with its breathtaking silliness. Sometimes it’s absent-mindedness, sometimes it’s deliberate but not-thought-through. Sometimes it’s that central survival instinct that Freud called the Id - the chimp-brain that acts now asks questions later. Sometimes, I guess, it’s much harder to clear up than mashed potato.

To my relief, Sammy continued to find it funny and not infuriating. That helped, though I was upset with myself for making such a basic error. She sent the video to her sister who replied with four laughing-face-emojis - which I guess is the best kind of response. Nobody was hurt. It was just a mashed potato incident.

I hope God chuckles at our silliness. I like to think he does, though I don’t think he likes it when people are hurt for no reason. As if to to complete the object lesson, Sammy handed me the kitchen roll and suggested I cleaned up the mess I’d made over the hob. I thought that was fair enough. I certainly believe each of us should be responsible for each of our messes where we can. She laughed. She loved. She even helped in the end, when she’d got her hysterics under control. I really love that.