Visiting Lake Potato

Every year I try to venture to my brother's house for Thanksgiving, for the best meal ever. My brother, Noel, and his wife, Janet, make this best ham (slow cooked with brown sugar); it is absolutely to die for! My brother and I like to sit at the table and reminisce about our mom who passed away 10 years ago. Somehow our conversations always wander back to her mashed potatoes. (Keep in mind that this story predates microwaves by many years.) Every Sunday she would make a HUGE vat of mashed potatoes, that she would serve as leftovers for days and days into the following week. As the days of leftover mashed potatoes wore on, the runnier they became. A few times on Sunday, as an attempt to not have leftovers, Noel and I ate serving after serving of mashed potatoes. Of course this failed, because the more we ate, the next Sunday she would just make a larger vat. Ohh, this was misery at it's worst! Through our misery, we both made a keen observation concerning the mashed potatoes; the milked down leftovers took over everything on our plate. Peas were pushed off as the potatoes swarmed angrily across the plate. The lone slab of meat, picture meat loaf if you will, was left floating like an island in a lake of a milky white substance. From that day on, we named the leftovers Lake Potato, and all future discussions of Lake Potato have since brought back memories of disgust and hilarity. Viva Lake Potato!