POTATO PEELER

It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving and things around here have finally calmed down.


It all began Wednesday afternoon with the preparation for Thursday’s big dinner. The ingredients for the stuffing had been sautéed, the ‘first course’ soup bubbling on the stove. Pies baked and vegetables washed, the only thing left to do was peel the potatoes.

Peeling potatoes. If I have peeled one potato in my lifetime, I have peeled millions.

Being the oldest in an Irish house full of five children, we ate mashed potatoes every night. I mean every, single night, without fail. Sometimes mashed by hand, other times with the mixer, it was the secret ingredient for stretching the food budget for a limited but rambunctious family. My three sisters and my brother all had specific duties when it came to mealtime, but since I was the oldest and a girl, I was given the responsibility to peel the potatoes.

I actually looked forward to this job, since it gave me a sense of accomplishment. I became quite adept at de-skinning the spuds, whipping out a five pound bag in under five minutes. I also developed my trademark method of slicing the skins off quickly, handling the peeler by scraping away from me, rather than towards me, as was traditionally done.

Sitting on a stool in front of the kitchen garbage can, silver peeler held in my right hand, I would systematically turn and slice the potato held in my left until it stood white and naked, shimmering under the kitchen lights in all of its potato glory. The tip of the peeler swiftly dug out the eyes of the most stubborn interloper, creating craters envious of any man on the moon. Whether the snow fell silently on the ground or the rain slapped loudly against the kitchen window behind me, I sat there and peeled potatoes. The cool afternoon breezes of summer wafting through the screen door beside it, or the sun streaked beams of spring danced across the linoleum floor like an invited ballerina, I sat and peeled potatoes. It became a time of pondering, wondering and dreaming, long lasting and ever present in my memories.

I’ve noticed over the years the transition of the lowly potato peeler. From a slim and somewhat feminine looking piece of metal, it has become refined and bulked up into a black, thick handled Adonis. Handles which now have grips, so as to avoid the once common journey into the trash along with the skins, as the peeler became airborne once my pace picked up.

I’ve peeled potatoes during the greatest events in history, dragging the kitchen trash can into the living room to sit in front of the one television set we owned. As a young girl whose feet barely touched the ground, I sat on the couch and watched from the corner of my eye the sadness in my mother’s face as she watched President Kennedy’s coffin pass by Jackie and her children.

I sat in disbelief and watched the Challenger explode on that cold winter morning, while my own babies played on the floor, unaware of the changing of history at that moment.

I’ve sat in darker kitchens and peeled them silently, tears streaming down my face as I prayed for those who needed it and even those who didn’t.  

I've sat and peeled them while admonishing angry teenagers, angst filled voices screaming over the sound of the slap slap of the skins into the trash.  They yelled, I peeled.  They stamped their feet and slammed their bedroom doors, and still I peeled.  When I really wanted to throttle them, I peeled and peeled and peeled.

I’ve peeled potatoes as therapy, watching the skins pile up on the countertop as metaphors for the challenges in my life. Day after day, I would peel them away until they no longer had any power over me, becoming dark piles of yesterdays that went to the trash can outdoors and hauled away.

Countless mounds of white sustenance when all I could afford to eat as a single mother, they sustained me and those who needed me to stay healthy and strong. Even as my children grew and left to create families of their own, I peeled potatoes for one and was happy with the task of the day, a warm reminder that some things never change, that everything changes, and it was going to be all right.

Then suddenly, society’s outlook on the potato became slanted. They were now considered nuisance carbohydrates, adding unneeded pounds to those trying to lose weight. It was time for me to back away from my old friend, leaving behind my once trusted confidante and friend.

I didn’t peel a potato for nearly two years, freeing up my hands to do other chores at dinner, and finding other outlets to occupy my time. I always felt something was missed at mealtime and I was right.

Slowly and steadily, I worked the potato back into the menu, for I now had a welcome partner at the table and who enjoyed them as much as I did. It was if the world had been slightly askew, but now righted itself, with the return of mashed nirvana to my table.

Watching me grasp the peeler again in my right while I looked at the small mound of potatoes calling from the plastic bag on the counter, he gently touched my other hand and offered to start peeling.

“That’s okay.” I answered softly. “I like peeling potatoes. It’s what I do.”

I must have peeled my millionth potato this Thanksgiving week, and I can’t imagine starting the holiday doing anything else while anticipating peeling many more in the years to come.   Little faces now watch me curiously as Nana begins the afteroon again with getting ready for dinner, curioius but not yet ready to assist in the duty.

When it finally is time to hand the peeler to someone else, I will sit back and watch with a smile, as the skins pile up on the countertop, signaling life continues on. I don’t think it can get much better than that.

SECRET OF THE ROUX

With the arrival of another Thanksgiving dinner, I am reminded of how things have changed.


When I was a young mother with babies and cats, the preparation for the holiday seemed to take days. Scouring the newspaper ads for the various sales at the competing supermarkets was a week-long event, culminating with the Sunday paper and its Pandora’s box of colored flyers.

If I wasn't already confused by week's end, seeing the different prices for fresh cranberries and oranges, as well as bags of bread versus bagged ready made stuffing, I was close to the edge. Sweet potatoes or yams, mashed potatoes or baked, the choices were endless and daunting, but still, a lot of fun. Canned cranberry sauce vs. jellied? I could never decide, so I bought both. Corn, turnips, squash, I cooked it all and there was enough leftovers to feed an army.

Of course, the crowning glory was the turkey, with stuffing in it, around it, and behind it.

In my old neighborhood, no self-respecting mother would serve a store bought pie, but I always bought an apple pie to hide in the pantry, just in case my pumpkin pie was less than adequate. These were babies mind you, and if I smothered a "mistake" with whipped cream, no one was the wiser. But there were some people who kept score.

In fact, most imperfections could be hidden - dinner rolls whose bottoms were burnt could be cut off, creating "shorties." Mashed potatoes too lumpy? Add more butter. Better yet, one could drown the whole feast in gravy.

Gravy, too, could be bought in a can or ripped from a package. I came from a long line of gravy makers, and my mother made the best. She knew how to make it, but didn't know how to teach me. Her heart laid more in matters of the arts, creative on canvas and clay, but not in the kitchen.

My younger sister picked up cooking like a second language, and once she started talking, I was truly a foreigner.

So any time it came time to prepare a meal with gravy, my heart was heavy with the thought of messing it up once again. It was too watery, too gooey or too pasty. I tried and tried, but I just couldn't get it. It invariably turned out lumpy and uneven, a metaphor for the life I was living, and trying not to notice.

Fast forward many years later, and although I had become more adept in the kitchen, gravies still intimidated me. As I entered a new stage in my life, with the addition of another family to add to my resume, I began to experiment with recipes and theories, both IN the kitchen and out.

I discovered the secret of the Roux.

To seasoned chefs in the kitchen, this may come as quite a surprise that I had never learned the mastery of a skill so simple. Roux. Butter, flour and pan drippings/juice from whatever you're cooking.

As I had with so many other areas of my life over the years, I’ve had to practice, over and over and over again, the Roux. Blending and stirring the three together until they were one, the Roux must become invisible, immersed into the gravy without taste and texture.

Because just as the Roux is the foundation of any gravy, the substance you pour over your meal, so is the Roux of Life.

Love, tenderness and kindness make the Roux of a life one can be proud of. They have to be blended to form the perfect base. There will be lumps if you don't have all three.

As with all the good things in my life, I have learned the secret of the Roux. My foundation is now secure and the recipe is complete. Everything else is gravy.

Learn to make a perfect Roux. You'll never be sorry.

I hope whatever lumps you are trying to blend into your life, may you temper the stirring with patience, kindness and tolerance. I hope you have a wonderful and Happy Thanksgiving, now and forever.