My mother's mashed potatoes were perfect.
Smooth, creamy with just the 
right ratio of milk and butter to potato. She
also had the perfect 
potato masher. The smashing part 
was metal with a red wooden 
handle that just
fit your hand. 

When I furnished my first kitchen, I tried using 
a blender. No good. I found a smaller 
version of my mother's
masher, which worked but gave 
out eventually. 

My mother died and I inherited 
the red handled masher.
For years I was able to make perfect mashed 
potatoes. A combination of age and too much time
in dishwater loosened the handle
and off it came. 

My husband bought a new one, black plastic
with holes to smash the 
potatoes through. Disappointment.

I looked in his work area to find the parts
of the masher for this poem. I found
it glued back together! If it's as strong as
it seems, mashed potatoes for dinner tomorrow!