I Can Mash Potato

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Last Sunday, I decided to try and make a special Sunday meal. So, I rifled through my pile of recipes, which were, if truth be told, all stacked on top of my Longaberger basket recipe box instead of neatly filed inside them. As I said, I love my recipe box, and there are recipes in it; however, it’s also a good recipe coffee table for when you haven’t found the time to re-file all your recipes!

Anyway, as I sorted through the olive oil-stained, basil flake encrusted, and rumpled print outs from All Recipes, I found one for Shepherd’s Pie. This wasn’t one of my favorites, but it seemed to please a variety of picky tastes (read “Iz” and “Nathan”). I didn’t really care for it, because it was so bland.

John once told me that his Mom was not a very good cook nor did she have a huge repertoire of meals. One of the meals she made quite frequently was Shepherd’s Pie. I once said to John after making it, “This tastes like nothing but potatoes and hamburger” to which he responded, “But, that’s the way it’s supposed to be!”

One of the main ingredients in my Shepherd’s Pie is mashed potato. I don’t make mashed potatoes a lot, so I had to pull out my most stable companion over the last 30 years which was the Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook. My grandmother gave it to me in 1985.

I like it, because it tells you how to make all of the basics. Before I discovered All Recipes, I was a basics girl when it came to food. Of course, I find it a tad funny that it was the “New” cookbook in 1985 and continues to be so; the “Old” version must have been before my cooking time.

On Sunday afternoon, I was perusing the index for “Potatoes, mashed.” I found them on page 401. I knew I really didn’t need a recipe; however, my cooking strategy had always been one half recipe, one quarter self-doubt, and one quarter winging it.

I opened to page 401. I read the recipe. I said, “Jeez, after all these years, I know how to do this!” I closed the book, and I began to peel the potatoes.

Many blogs back, I mentioned how certain songs and scents always reminded me of events and people in my life. As I stood there by the sink peeling the potatoes, I remembered who taught me how to make mashed potatoes. It was my friend, Bitsy (Elizabeth) when we were in college.

Our Senior year, we lived in Brandeis’ Senior housing which was called “The Mods.” They weren’t mod by any stretch of the imagination; they were really only modular. Bitsy and I lived with Steve, her boyfriend, and another guy named Steve.

Besides the four bedrooms, the bathroom, and the living area, we had a kitchen in which we cooked dinner a few nights a week. Of course, shopping and cooking were left to Bitsy and I; dishes were left to Steve and Steve. Bitsy and I didn’t mind shopping, because we controlled the purchases, which included the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine whenever it was available, and we just made Steve and Steve fork over the cash for the total purchases.

I loved our food shopping nights. We got into the car (Robert’s steel gray Camaro, my Mom’s turd brown Dodge Aspen, or Bitsy’s puke green Dodge Dart) and headed to the Stop & Shop in Waltham armed with our coupons, which I cut out of the Sunday Boston Globe on the weekends I went home. The only real struggle those evenings was where we would park; Bitsy always wanted to try and park next to the front door, and I preferred to grab the first available and walk. We had many differences, and I always laughed about that one the most.

After shopping, we’d arrive back at the Mods and park in front of ours, Mod 16 or 22, I think. You weren’t supposed to park in front of your Mod, but we did it only to unload our bounty. One of us, depending on who was driving the car of the evening, would run into the Mod and roust the boys to carry in bags.

After the car was parked legally back in the parking lot, we’d head back in to unload the bags. Subsequently, Bitsy and I would fight with Steve (her boyfriend) over who got to read Cosmopolitan first. Bitsy and I usually won due to Bitsy wooing Steve via whatever she happened to whisper into his ear that made him drop the magazine onto the couch and leave the room.

In those days, we all ate dinner together 3-4 times a week. I remember two staple dinners that Bitsy and I made. One was chicken parmesan (Robert’s mother taught me how) with spaghetti and salad and the other was Shake ‘n Bake chicken, mashed potatoes, and frozen vegetables. Steve, Bitsy’s Steve, was a big canned vegetable guy; I insisted on frozen if we couldn’t have fresh, and I won.

I remember one of the first nights we made dinner; Bitsy announced we’d have mashed potatoes with our Shake ‘n Bake chicken. She said to me, “You make the potatoes,” to which I said, “Um, err, ah, how do I do that?” She asked, “You don’t know how to make mashed potatoes?!”

I didn’t. I could bake anything; remember, I had flour running through my veins due to my maternal great grandparents who owned a bakery for many years in Cambridge. But, alas, I didn’t know the first thing about mashed potatoes. Of course, after that night, I could make them with my eyes closed for the rest of the school year.

As I stood there mashing my potatoes on Sunday, I thought about Bitsy a lot and especially of the things that reminded me of her, one of which was mashed potatoes. Any song by the Police always reminded me of her, because I had attended my first concert at the then Boston Garden with Bitsy and Steve. We saw the Police; and that was a night I’ll never forget.

Other things that always made me think of her were Cosmopolitan, Peeps (which ironically Iz adores), Pleasures by Estee Lauder, Germany (she was fluent in German and had a full scholarship to Brandeis because of that), pop-tarts, the Tubes, and the Ramones.

We saw the Tubes at WPI. Her brother went there. In 1982, our sophomore year, one of her brother’s friends picked us up, brought us to Worcester, and we danced like maniacs to Talk to Ya Later and everything else they played that night.

There were good times, and there were bad times for us both. One night, after a few beers at a party, I walked Bitsy back to her dorm. She was so miserable she wanted to walk home to her parent’s in Weymouth. I gave her two aspirin, made her drink two glasses of water, and I kept her from making that long walk home. I tucked her into bed, rubbed her head, and then I left and locked the door.

Shortly thereafter, we both applied for transfers. I got into Boston College; and then Bitsy told me that she couldn’t afford to transfer because of her scholarship. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I couldn’t finish college without her, and I knew I wanted to stay with her.

As I spread my mashed potatoes over my pie, it was funny to think that mashed potatoes could bring so many memories. But, they did. And, it was so good to think about her and have her back in my life even if it was for just that moment.

This picture shows Steve, Bitsy, Steve (her husband), and me at Bitsy and Steve’s wedding in 1989. (I have the bad perm. And, yes, that's an 80s bridesmaid dress.)



And, as went to put my pie in the oven, all of my Bitsy memories came back so strongly. She died of breast cancer in 1995 when she was only 33 years old. She was a beautiful, wonderful, and intelligent woman, and I will always miss her.

Life is about many things. Mostly, to me, it seems to be about love and loss. Though, it’s so very nice when mashed potatoes, a very pedestrian carbohydrate, can remind you of a love and a life that was so long ago but is still so near and dear to your heart.

Bitsy’s Mom’s 80th birthday celebration was on the Sunday I mashed my potatoes, though I couldn’t make her party. That night, after much mashing, I got a Facebook friend request. It was from Bitsy’s good friend, Krista, who I had lost touch with. You can’t tell me that the Great Cat Goddess doesn’t work in mysterious ways. ♥

This is what I read at Bitsy’s memorial service. (♥ Don’t read this if you are Nancy. ♥)

It was 15 years ago to the month that I walked up a flight of stairs in Allen Hall at Brandeis University and entered the room of a fellow freshman where she caught my attention immediately.

She was effervescent. She was animated. But, what were these “pup tarts” she was talking about? Taken by her friendliness, I began to talk to her only to find out that Bitsy’s pup tarts were Jean’s pop tarts.

Our accents aside, we chatted, almost interviewing each other as if we were both secretly hoping to find an ally in a place where we felt out of place.

We discovered we were both from Massachusetts; this made us acquaintances. We discovered that we were both Polish; this gave us solidarity. And as breakfast meetings led to lunch meetings, and as lunch meetings led to dinner meetings, Sherman Dining Hall gave us friendship.

As I look back, it’s hard to believe that that 15-minute conversation about pop tarts, Massachusetts, and nationality led to a 15-year friendship. In some ways, we were opposites. She was studying German Literature. I was studying English and American Literature. She did the Jane Fonda aerobic workout. I played volleyball and threw a discus. She liked Barry Manilow then. I liked the B-52s. She drank tea. I drank coffee. She said “pup tarts.” I said “pop tarts.”

The transition to Brandeis was a challenging one for both of us. Some of our interests were different, but our spirits were the same. Laughter was important to us. People were important to us. We were important to each other. In a place where I sometimes felt like it was “us” against “them”, my friendship with Bitsy made me feel like there was a whole lot more of us than of them.

To some, that four years may seem insignificant out of a total of 33, but they were four of the most important years of my life. Neither Brandeis nor my diploma gave me strength or confidence. Bitsy did. When I look at my diploma now, it seems as if there should have been a signature line on the very bottom titled “Friend who helped you make it through the most difficult four years of your life”, and that’s where Bitsy would have signed.

She helped me with my Computer Science. She was my security blanket at parties. She cheered me on at volleyball games. She let me raid her refrigerator. She listened to my fears. Her encouragement was never ending.

I have never longed for those college years since then. I always felt that when I graduated, I left with the thing I deemed most important about Brandeis - not its diploma but Bitsy’s friendship. Our departure from Brandeis did not end our friendship. While we did not see each other as often, I always knew that she was there for me, and she knew that I was there for her.

After 15 years, I could still not tell you exactly why we clicked. She liked Persians. I liked Tabby cats. She liked marshmallow peeps. I liked Milky Ways. She said pup tarts. I said pop tarts. She believed in me. I believed in her. Well, maybe it was just really because she loved me, and I loved her.