I fully admit that I am a mashed potato snob. I have no problem admitting that I love potatoes. No matter how you prepare them, chances are that I will eat them and have a smile on my face while I do it. But mashed potatoes? Oh with a little extra butter and some gravy?
Growing up, my grandmother, hands down, made the best mashed potatoes.
I’m pretty sure most Polish grandmothers make some rocking mashed potatoes.
So I tend to be really picky about mashed potatoes.
My poor mother had to deal with my childhood criticism of her mashed potatoes. Because my mother’s mashed potatoes were lumpy, not creamy, and not at all like my grandma’s. I also felt free to let her know this everytime she made them.
Looking back now, my mom’s mashed potatoes were fine and nothing worth such harsh judgement. I’m also surprised my mom didn’t lose her shit on me for being such a butthead about her mashed potatoes. Thank you mom!
I have no idea how my grandma achieved the perfect mashed potato and sadly I never asked her. I took it for granted that I would always have amazingly delicious mashed potatoes.
My grandma has been gone now for over 20 years and every time I make mashed potatoes, I think of her.
Food is important to me and there are many foods that make me automatically think of someone I love dearly. For me, food is a connection. It’s a bond. It’s something I share with that person that no one else does.
I cannot make mashed potatoes like her. I’ve tried. Oh goodness how I have tried.
Instead my mashed potatoes are probably pretty similiar to my mom’s with a few extra tweaks.
And I’m okay with that. While I would love to be able to achieve mashed potato glory, right now, I’m okay with homemade mashed potatoes with an extra pat of butter, some love, and a great memory.