KB's Basic Blog

I think a lot about the fact that I am never going to know the secret of my grandma’s mashed potatoes.   They shouldn’t be a mystery.   I asked my mom once what grandma did to make her potatoes so delicious and she looked at me like I had grown a third eye.                 “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.”                 Grandma always had the same box of mashed potatoes: Betty Crocker Potato Buds.   They sat in the cupboard next to the refrigerator on the second shelf, right beside the Stove Top brand stuffing.   The box was pulled out for family dinners and was featured prominently next to the turkey, or ham, or whatever traditional holiday meal was being served.   And always they were my favorite.   Melt in your mouth potatoes, with the sweet taste of butter and covered in perfectly cooked gravy.   Uniquely grandmas, regardless of who may have cooked them.                 “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.”                         

It was strange to see you lying there spine broke and insides split asunder. Your pallor spilled upon my bedsheets and I, unable to fix you, gathered you to my chest and wept for the long hours we spent curled in resplendent rapture, wrapped warmly in delirium dreams. You were so good to me in your sweet silence holding my mind in your hands while it tried to escape its own darkness never protesting the damp spots my tears left on your surface as my sorrow mingled with your words and created whole new worlds. You have left a hole in my home, in my heart, in my head that can never be filled without first stopping by the bookstore to fill the void you have left on my overfull shelves. Author's Note: Sorry, not sorry :D