I was simmering up a batch of chicken and noodles tonight. I slow cooked the chicken and veggies in a crock pot, just to try it out. The carrots were just perfect, no mush. Tender chicken. Cooked the noodles in my big pot and added it all together. Ed stood beside me and I stirred the pot. And then I realized that I didn’t have mashed potatoes.
Flashing before my eyes I could see piles of chicken noodles, beef noodles, noodles loaded up on top of a mountain of mashed potatoes. White and black big metal roasters in the church kitchens, at the 4H building, at funeral dinners. Beef braised tender all day by grannies and aunties. My neighbor standing over the pit he dug in the backyard to smoke that side of beef for the big community dinner down at the lake. Long lines of all the town folks waiting to get their beef sandwiches before the fair kicks off.
It’s been a good day, with prayers answered, the enjoyment of seeing the kids perform for the musical, the blessing of friends. The fridge quit, but Ed thinks he can fix it. But I am just tired from all kinds of things and stupid worry and remodeling and stupid worry and wondering why sad things happen to innocent babies.
So I just started bawling. And I decided it must be About Mashed Potatoes.
In Kansas. In Kansas, up there on the high plains, we eat mashed potatoes. We pour noodles over mashed potatoes and eat mashed potatoes. We get together and make big roasters full of tender meat and it tastes good and smells good and we eat it, all together we eat it together.
Recipes will follow when I’m not crying into the pot.