The Potato Eaters

So…

Mummy brings home this bag of small red globes, not unlike apples (only less shiny).

She opens said bag and dumps the lumps into a shiny silver bowl with all over holes.

SIDE NOTE: I did not put those holes there, though I fear I may be blamed someday. Apparently it has escaped Mummy’s notice that when she pours water into this bowl, it all falls out those holes. It is only a matter of time before she catches on…

 Where was I?

Oh yes, Mummy washes off the potatoes and leaves the leaking bowl in the sink (should have been her first clue. About the holes, I mean).

So…

Young Mosby gets the bright idea, and I admit I was a pippin, that he wants to inspect these tubers more closely with a view to ascertaining their value as a source of nutrition. We kits are always starving so must plan ahead in event of a catastrophe, such as Mummy letting the tuna run out or a burglar making off with the crunchies.

Mosby sniffed and found them not so aromatic as hoped but there is always more to a potato than meets the eye, I always say. He glances round to be sure no one (AKA Mummy) is watching, then deftly nabs a potato and lobs it onto the floor. We all move in to see what this stuff is made of. Concurring that the smell isn’t anything to tell the grandchildren about, we bat it around a bit to see how well it rolls. Pretty smoothly, I am happy to report!

It is at this juncture that Mosby hops down from his aerie and takes charge of the spud, whacking it beneath the cabinet then immediately retrieving it. After volleying back and forth in this manner for several minutes, the potato found itself split in two pieces.

Now, I prefer my potatoes with loads of butter, softly whipped into a mound of fluffy lightness but as a midday snack, cold, raw spuds are not too bad. We finished off most of that potato then began gnawing on another one Mosby very kindly poached for us….

Sage advice: I would give a word of caution to anyone attempting this at home – one would be wise to hide the remains before Mummy reenters the room (as in, don’t leave half in the middle of the room for her to trip on and the other half wedged beneath the frame of the entryway door. It makes a dreadful splintering sound when the door has to be forced open. And I am pretty sure it wasn’t the potato that cracked).