Mount Saint Frybaby

Mount Saint Frybaby

Usually, when I dream, I am in strange places, familiar but not quite right places, where I meet people I know from somewhere (often the past) and have something I need to do that seems easy but turns out to be far more difficult than first imagined. Some times I am searching for something. Usually, it is just too bizarre to put into words once I am awake.

My husband, a few days ago, dreamt of fried potatoes. Not hashbrowns, golden brown next to a pile of hot eggs. Not french fries, with ketchup, next to a nice crispy chicken strip from McDonalds. Not even latkes, with a nice side of applesauce. No, he dreamt of deep fried mashed potatoes, and supposedly they were so delicious, he had to recreate them at dinner the next evening. He is a regular experimenter in the kitchen, so this is not out of the ordinary. I expressed a distinct concern with his idea, but he was not hindered by my lack of enthusiasm.

It started out fine, with the making of mashed potatoes. Because he is allergic to real things in mashed potatoes, I am sure they included copious amounts of a tofu sour cream alternative and margerine, perhaps a little rice milk. Really, they can be good, even with all that shit. But on with the story. Out came the “fry baby”, recently given to us by mom, and used in my youth only to make crispy, delicious doughnuts. It holds a couple of pints of oil, tops.

I was in the dining room (well, the other side of our tiny kitchen, I suppose) when it blew. I was alerted by the concurrent swearing and sounds of liquid splashing to the floor. When he started spooning in the mashed potatoes, a la dream, they instantly dissolved, while the hot oil bubbled up like a Hawaiian volcano, over the edge of the pot, over the counter, into the open silverware drawer, in that horrendous nasty shaft between the counter and the fridge, and all over the white kitchen floor and rug. Woo hoo. Gotta love deep fried mashed potatoes. Keep dreaming, dearest.

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