A Love Letter to Mashed Potatoes

by Chesney Jensen

While potatoes of all kinds deserve their flowers, one, amongst the many, will always take the cake. I can’t find them in a restaurant, and rarely am I even able to recreate them in my own, grown-up kitchen. It’s unclear what my mom and sister whisper into the pot while they boil, or blend in when I’m not looking, but the mashed potatoes in my parents’ home at the bottom of the street on Millwater Crossing are, without question, the best form of potato. 

They don’t just mix perfectly with every dish, they’re the glue that holds it all together. Whether wedged between my turkey and broccoli casserole, with canned cranberries inching closer with every bite, or complimenting Sam’s birthday meatloaf in the middle of June, this simple side has become a cornerstone to Jensen family meals. It’s crafted above hungry dogs and around sneaky fingers; we all grab bites when my mom turns around as if she hasn’t snuck her own spoonful. 

For me, mashed potatoes weave together memories. Memories of my grandma, surrounded by three, four, or five dogs, slowly handing each eager one bites off her own plate. Memories of leftovers flying from one end of the kitchen to the other. Mouths open, going for Hail Mary’s like the football game on the TV in the living room. And the back porch. My grandma playfully shouting, “you all” at my cousin as he tosses me a huge spoonful. I miss the catch. We have to scrub the floor now. 

A thank you is owed to Hannah Glasse, who according to a quick Google search, invented this dish as we know it in 1747. My fondest memories would not be complete without this gift.