Like many girls with a penchant for the finer things in life, I have always had an insatiable love for Mashed Potato. The billowing mounds of buttery goodness have seen me through the toughest of times: providing comfort during my early uni days when life's problems were solved by a bag of Asda instant, the remnants of a pot of Bisto and a kettle; adding a glistening silver lining to many a failed Atkins attempt and, of course, being the crowning glory of so many Sunday Roasts. My relationship with mash has not not always been entirely 'lump free', however.
I was probably a bit of a weeper as a kid: growing up on a field in sunny Sussex, not used to many disappointments in life and perhaps a tad over-sensitive. Frustration and anger sought me out one very unremarkable Sunday afternoon when I was dealt a large helping of unsavoury news: mashing potatoes were OUT OF SEASON?! The moment the news sunk in so did my heart, and hot unwelcome tears began to pump into my face: the now so familiar feeling of my lips and eye lids uncontrollably swelling up as I tried to stop what I knew was inevitably about to erupt. In an attempt to defend my eleven year old self - new potatoes honestly are not comparable to the old classics: there is nothing fluffy or indulgent about a new potato. It's like trying to substitute Scarlett Johansen for Marilyn Monroe. Ludicrous. Still, whatever degree of justification I can scrape together, I did cry over potatoes. I wept, sobbed and snotted through loyalty to a root vegetable. This is what crossed my mind last night as I felt a small embarrassed tear try and prickle it's way to the surface whilst on the tube home, following what I can only describe as an absolute 'shitter' of a day: life can't always be mashed potatoes... sometimes, life will trip you up, kick you up the arse and deal you out an unwelcome helping of newies. But to let it get you down, when there are actual real, relevant problems and issues happening to far less fortunate people in the world, would be equally as ridiculous as I was that fateful Sunday. So I gulped back the frustration and anger and managed to hold it together. At least until I got home, and found a cupboard bare of Bisto. Ah yes, and now for the Gravy metaphor of life.........
