It’s a holiday, and so my sister and I are back at home. We’re making dinner with my mom. I’m cutting and roasting brussel sprouts, or pounding and seasoning chicken, or sauteing mushrooms and onions, or any number of other activities. This is the first step to success—my mom and sister have the touch.
My mom is working on three other things and checking in with my sister and me. We’ve been developing this rhythm for two decades, almost as soon as my sister and I could say “I try mommy! I try!” So practiced, we need to say very little to coordinate ourselves in the space, so we get to talk about everything else.
My sister has peeled the potatoes (or not, depending on our mood) and steams them in a large pot. While she is waiting for them, she unwraps the foil from the garlic we roasted earlier, and peels paper off the soft and caramel cloves. My mom measures milk and butter in a glass liquid measure then pops it briefly in the microwave, so that the butter is melted and the milk is warm; now she shakes salt and pepper into the liquids.
The potatoes are ready. My sister drains any excess water, then adds the garlic and the liquid mixture to the pot. She takes the potato masher that is older than we are, (or the electric mixer that is not, depending on our mood,) and works the potatoes until they are silky. Somehow she can make them chunky or smooth on demand, and not lose silkiness. I can make good mashed potatoes, but never silky like hers.
The pot stays on the stove. The tip of a serving spoon sticks over the rim. We scoop potatoes onto our plate in the space unclaimed by veggies or meat, and they are perfect.