Forever and a day it's been understood in my family that my brother Michael makes the mashed potatoes. Every family function is greeted with the knowledge that Michael will show up with his heavenly creation. They have been called "killer potatoes" because, well, they are. Loaded with everything that is on every dietitians banned list, these things make the world stop turning, if only for the length of the meal. As (insert the deity of your choice here) as my witness, I have actually seen the heavens part and the angels start singing upon taking a simple bite. So with good reason, most in my family don't even bother to offer up mashers as a side because, anyone who has eaten the best will only complain that the meal has been ruined by such an inferior creation.

And until today, I never thought the wifeage could compete or even attempt to. She does many things well, and under any other circumstances, I'm sure her potatoes would be applauded for their excellence. But Michael's potatoes are, well, on a level few have ever experienced and certainly most shouldn't for they suffer the indignity of searching the rest of their life for anything remotely close. But the wifeage, channeling some inner part of her being, did the unthinkable. She replicated a masterpiece. And when I asked her how she did it or what she did differently, she stared back blankly. It was happen chance at best and though I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my portion, I knew that this would never happen again. And a tear rolled down my cheek. I'm probably better off but at this moment, but I really can't believe that.

Johnny GoMash