Let Sleeping Spuds Lie?
I’m faced with this quandary seemingly every Christmas Eve:
The sugarplums are all nestled snug in their beds, with visions of children dancing in their heads. And — after all the clank and clatter of ladle and platter, after all the jostling of glassware and folding chairs from the basement, after all the “Come to the table!”s and “Stop shoving your sister, Timmy!”s and “Thank Thee, Oh Lord!”s — my poor whipped and beaten spuds have finally fallen to sleep.
What should I do?
Cover them in a smooth warming blanket of Grandma’s fine turkey gravy? Snuggle them between matching mounds of minced giblets and luscious Le’Sueur peas? See if a pat of butter would melt on their tasty tubery tongue?
Or should I awaken them brusquely with a dusky dousing of chopped garlic, chive, crumbled bacon and parmesan? Savagely swirl them with butter and sour cream? Rend their sleeping goodness with fork or knife?
Ah! Then inspiration dawns!
I simply, smoothly and stealthily subdivide my sleeping spudly mountain into multiple matching mini-mounds, allowing me to season and savor each — variably, differentially, sequentially, and oh so satisfyingly!
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