My mother-in-law made fantastic mashed potatoes. I mean, they were so delicious that there were times the serving bowl was just about empty before it got to me. I used to be puzzled about why hers were so good and mine weren't. Peel, chop, boil, mash. How hard can that be?
Then one day she didn't shoo me out of the kitchen quickly enough and I learned the secret. While I used skim milk in my potatoes, she used real cream. While I used a thin slice of butter, she used entire sticks. While I may have occasionally added a small dollop of fat free sour cream, she used several ounces of the real stuff. Oh, those potatoes were lovely!
She has now been gone longer from this life than seems possible.
My boys have been raising money for the local Relay for Life. In a few days, we will go over to the event and we'll cheer for the survivors as they walk around the track, and light a luminary in memory of Grandma Judy, and then I think we'll come home and make some mashed potatoes her way.
Isn't it interesting how such seemingly insignificant things can mean so much years later?