Peel the potatoes, scoop the peel from the counter top into my left hand, open the cabinet under the sink, pull the trash can slider by the stainless steel handle, throw the peel. The sound from it hitting the other trash, the bouncing over paper towels mixed with egg shells and food scraps, the little smell that gets disturbed from the action of the little weight of the new trash joining the old pile. I have read somewhere that odor is cause by bacteria decomposing. That's it. I need to refresh this trash can, throw it out, but its not entirely full, it would be wasteful; maybe if I spray vinegar it would calm down all those crazy bacteria. Vinegar is the Prozac of germs and bacteria; my mom uses vinegar even on her hair after shampooing; "it makes it smooth", she says.
Now that I sprayed the trash I can continue with my task, cutting the potatoes in chunks, cubes, imperfect pyramids, some of the geometric figures will have a dent I will make with the knife, because I'm getting the eyes off. I had google for the second time if it was fine to eat a potato that was sprouting. “Yes, you can, just don't eat it if the potato is wrinkly or it has turns green”. Firm potato, firmer than my body in the last 10 years. But I will cut the eyes off. What a strange name for a potato-sprout-hole. It almost sounds violent talking about grabbing a knife and stabbing a poor potato to pull the nasty eyes, off...out?
Job is done. Now I'm going to rinse my geometric-starchy-parts. The sound of the water flowing into the bowl, splashing the walls of the sink, the water in the bowl is turning murky, like most of the rivers now, I wish the rivers were just dirty with potato starch water; I've read it's actually good for you. I've juice potatoes and carrots to drink when I have a little acid reflux, it's soothing. Enough. Now to the pressure cooker, the electric one with a bunch of buttons, but I really use two or three of them. I plug it in, when I open the lid it makes a funny electronic sound and I wonder why do I need a sound to let me know I'm opening the pot or closing it. I reflect on it now: am I actually opening the pot? Or it's just my imagination and the designer thought I needed a reality check sound to re-ensure I was opening or closing the pot? Water, potatoes, a little salt, close the pot, there goes the ding-ding-ding; I flip the pages on the cooking book that comes with the machine and search for potatoes. Time: 4 minutes, natural pressure release. I push all the funny buttons creating a cooking symphony, shake my body to it. And turn around to do other food preparation.
I'm focus, no music playing, no TV, just me and the food in my galley kitchen. My mind is among all the colors, smells and sounds. Almost as if it's out of me, but touchable like the greens I'm tossing with my hands and the cucumber slices, the cherry tomatoes and the thin slices of red onions. Perhaps my mind is not rolling around with the food, but somehow the food entered my mind and is rolling around inside of my head, trying desperately to escape from my tough scull. It got in there through my nose, that's it. The sound of the knife on the cutting board is almost like the drumming on a ballad song. Rhythm, my favorite thing. Suddenly four minutes are gone and the instant pot beeps and my phone rings and the garlic looks at me. I see garlic and I go so many places: to Cuba and our tiny and super tasty garlic heads, to Palamos, Spain and the toasted bread with garlic and tomato rubbed on; to a Mediterranean restaurant and its garlic paste I smear on every thing, even on nuts, my mom's kitchen, the barbecue my uncle makes, the asthma medicine my aunt made me when I was a kid, San Francisco and the Stinking Rose with their 40 cloves chicken and the garlicky ice cream and all the stinky gas we passed that night.
I have to smash that garlic to marinade the fish I'm putting on the grill. That grill is my age. We spray-painted it a few years ago and changed the wood on the side tables. No one can tell it's age, but you could tell mine. The phone rang and the potatoes are ready. What first? The phone? It could be an emergency? I'm afraid it would mess up my meal, and my evening. I better get that. Wait! Maybe I'll let it go to voice mail and check it out after my food has digested, I'm so hungry right now. That sounds so selfish. Somebody might need me desperately, it could life threatening... nah! I'm like a cougar right now or a gristly bear, nothing is more important than my meal. Something strikes me all the sudden: I'm nothing but an animal, a mammal, a four legged, hairy creature that rationalizes, but who says other animals don't rationalize. That's silly!! the hawk hanging on to that lower branch is looking around and saying to himself: "come on buddy, you gotta find some distracted (he is really thinking 'stupid') squirrel to feed myself and my chicks". I feel that hawk and I have everything in common. We share the neighborhood with a bunch of other people and animals, we are hungry and that's all it matters right now.
I decided my ready-to-mash-potatoes were more important than the incoming call. I love mash potatoes and I don't make them very often. This is the second time in almost 10 years. I have this ego: I make the best mash potatoes in the world. Hey! It's OK to be a believer. After all, the world could be conformed by the globe and the hundreds of millions people living on it or just me and my delicate palate, which it's all it matters. I drained most of the water from the potatoes and transferred them to a plate. I use a big fork to smash them, no need of a fancy tool to do so. I just work from the outside in, slowly, I'm not in a hurry, I have no children around crying: "mama, when is food ready?" And if nature had given me kids, they would be sitting on the counter top mashing potatoes with me, just like I did with my mom.
Done! Potatoes are smooth. Salt grinder, crush to taste and my final touch; a dessert spoon of mayo. As I mix it the color goes from pail yellow to off white and the smoothness is even better. I scrape the potatoes back into the instant pot and choose the Keep Warm buttons, close the pot and go about cooking my fish. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes”, I announce and all the sudden the house is filled with foot steps sniffing sounds, complementary expressions about the colors and the smells. Ding-ding-ding, and a spoon scrapes a bit of the mashed potatoes, “yum!!” I hear.
Yes, I know, so much for a meal that would devoured in 10 minutes. I wonder how long would the hawk and her family take to eat their pray.
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