On Thursday evenings if there are only four of us we boil up a five-pound sack of russets after the supper dishes are washed. We don’t peel them, just boil them, in a six-inch-tall sided pan he bought outside an army base in Georgia.
It’s a war surplus pan, one I’d love to have, it’s a tank of a pan. If we turn it just so, we can get the pan on top off all three of the gas burners on the stove’s top.
If any grandkids are due to arrive, we do at least seven pounds. They become either mashed potatoes or hash browns at each mornings breakfast and every supper, there’s tators a plenty.
Les saves a gallon of the potato boiling water for everything it seems except the next morning’s water to brew the coffee, but his spuds suds goes into gravies, thins soups and stews, or it used to boil rice and noodles, he don’t waste a drop of his spuds water.
If you bring something for one of the weekend meals to share, no worries, the side, is always potatoes. On Sunday afternoons, when leather pants belts are taut at the waistline, any remaining spuds get rolled up into marble sized balls. We arrange them on a long flat slab of pine board, then we wait for the chickadees or the gray jays to finish em off.
- The Trout Whisperer
