I’ve shared several stories of my domestic triumphs here, so I think it’s only fair to let you hear this story. Just in case you were starting to get jealous of my mad skillz around the house.
We ate some delicious potatoes at my mom’s house the other night. I could tell they were easy to make, and I’m always up for new ways to love my potatoes, so I asked her for the instructions. Sure enough, they were simple: Thinly slice potatoes. Layer in a skillet with oil and water, season with salt, pepper, and parsley. Cover with a lid and steam.
This sounded so easy, I almost put Abby in charge of this cooking project. Confident in my success, and thinking ahead toward lunch the next day, I made an extra-big batch. Slice, season, steam. Got it.
Well, no sooner had I covered up my big electric skillet (normal stovetop size was not big enough!), I happened to notice a little brown bug on the top of my parsley shaker. Gross, I thought, killing the bug and turning back to the sink. And then, seconds later…how long have I had that parsley?
I emptied the remaining parsley into an empty bowl, and sure enough, it was infested with bugs, both dead and alive. I looked back at my skillet, and sure enough, I could see little brown bodies on the potatoes as well. Fiddlesticks! I thought (or something along those lines…). That’s a lot of good potatoes.
I won’t tell you how long I stood there, thinking about just leaving those bugs right where they were. Potatoes,with a little extra protein, right? No. But to eat a meatloaf dinner with no potatoes??
Closing my eyes (figuratively) to the depths to which I was sinking as a homemaker and a cook, I turned off the skillet, dumped the potatoes into a big colander, and…yes. I rinsed the bugs off and cooked the potatoes anyway, sans parsley and sans bugs. And do you know what? They were delicious!