I confess I am not a cook. Since I got married, Kelly has taken care of nearly every aspect of meal preparation. I am only called upon for the occasional omelette, bacon, or burger. I am mostly capable of following a recipe, so if something comes in a box with instructions on the side I generally feel competent to prepare it, but foods without such aids are beyond me.
Nevertheless, the other day Kelly asked me to prepare baked potatoes. There is a “baked potato” setting on our microwave, and I have used that with some level of success in the past, but Kelly wanted me to use her easy oven recipe. I preheated the oven to four-hundred degrees, popped any growing eyes off the potatoes, washed them in the sink, and, once preheating was complete, placed the potatoes into the oven. Per Kelly’s instruction, I set the timer for forty-five minutes.
At the appointed time, I put on the oven mitt and proceeded to lift the potatoes out of the oven and place them onto a cutting board. The second potato had its own plan. When I set the potato down, it promptly exploded. The skin was separated from the potato and launched onto the still open oven door. Potato shrapnel flew from one side of the kitchen to the other, leaving a trail of white potato shards on the oven, floor, and cabinets. The pulverized core of the potato remained sitting on the cutting board.
And that is why Miranda had mashed potatoes for dinner last night.