Confessions of a Spud Hater

I've recently made myself reacquainted with a long-lost enemy: the potato. As of now, the potato-eaters in my household outnumber the potato-haters (namely, me). So, I have decided to take the plunge and begin making potatoes for meals.

You may be asking yourself, how does a young lass born in Iowa grow up not eating potatoes? This is the million-dollar (or 3 cent) question to which no one in my family has the answer. It has become a piece of folklore with my parents who claim that upon learning how to speak, I simple said "no" whenever offered the offending root vegetable. Granted, I said "no" to about 75% of food that crossed my path until I moved to Japan in my early 20s. Then, faced with the alternative of starvation, I figured out how eat most everything. Unless you've lived and/or traveled in an Asian nation, you may not understand that universality of that statement. I drew the line at raw horse and fermented soybeans. I knew it was time to come home when I no longer was phased by eating the beady eyes of little shrimp. When I did come home with a new found appreciation for all types of cuisine, I still could not suck down a potato.

Then, I got married. I love my husband dearly. I enjoy attempting to make him decent meals on a regular basis. But, after many years of marriage, those meals have categorically never contained potatoes. I am damaged goods. He still loves me.

Now we have a young son whom all of our habits, good and bad, will be imprinted upon. I committed to Dustin to not pass on my hatred towards the potato. It started on Valentine's Day. Dustin and I had a steak dinner after Jaden had gone to bed. I tried my hand at garlic-mashed potatoes. Having no idea how to make such a concoction, I just went with what sounded sensible. I tossed a few potatoes in the oven for a long time, took out their middles when they were soft, and mashed them with cream and garlic and salt. He choked them down. I have no idea what they tasted like.

With my apprenticeship over, I have moved on to my next (and more vulnerable) subject. Yesterday I baked both regular and sweet potatoes for Jaden. They are now stored safely in my refrigerator, and will soon be in his belly. I will serve them to him with the same gusto as I do bananas and other less tragic foods.

I fully understand that soon enough I will start putting potatoes on my plate to set a good example. If I'm going to torment my child with my own psychosis I really want it to be over something slightly more serious than potatoes.

No one told me parenting required such sacrifice.

Disclaimer: French fries (thin ones, like McDonald's style), and potato chips do not count as potatoes. I think we can all agree that once any substance is fried enough it tastes delicious.

Addendum: After my mom read this post she made sure to tell me that I had cooked the pictured potatoes within an inch of their lives. She wondered if anything edible had been left. I guess I still have some work to do. *sigh*