My dad loves to read the newspaper. He’ll spend, no joke, three hours every single day, reading it from cover to cover. An actual physical newspaper, too. Not a digital online version. We’re talking ink smudges on his fingers, paper cuts if he flips to the Sports section too quickly, the whole nine yards. It’s as normal a part of his daily routine as eating, sleeping, and breathing.
I find this quaint and endearing, but also, I like to tease him about it. I get our local paper, too–I want to stay on top of community happenings, and also, our police blotter is straight out of Mayberry (actual recent entry: Police received a report of an injured rabbit in the roadway near North High Street and North Fourth Street. The rabbit was dispatched. (I hope “dispatched” doesn’t mean what I think it means))–but I don’t read it every day. Often, 4-5 newspapers will pile up before I get around to reading them, and when I finally do, it certainly doesn’t take me hours to get through them. Small town and whatnot; there ain’t a lot happening ’round here. Plus, I’m a total skimmer. I can get through an entire newspaper in five minutes, maybe 10 if there’s a particularly engaging story. I scan the obituaries, read the comic strips that begin with P (Pearls Before Swine, Pickles, Peanuts), check the MLB box scores, glance at the weather, chuckle over the dumbest of the Dear Abby advice-seekers, and call it good.
Last weekend, I was chatting with my folks, and my mom mentioned how they were headed out “after dad finishes the paper in a few hours.” I started laughing, told her I couldn’t believe he was so invested in reading every single word…
…and then lost myself in blogging the rest of the afternoon.
And that’s when I realized two things:
- I’m just like my dad,
- Which makes me a hypocrite.
The medium may be different, but we both find ourselves engrossed in the words of others for hours at a time. After that embarrassing truth dawned on me, I felt pretty silly for giving him such a hard time, good-natured though it might be. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Also, I’d be a lot more productive if y’all weren’t so damn entertaining.
So many interrobangs, so few potatoes
I forgot to mention my favorite part of our meal when we took Audrey and Anna to the Del Bar Supper Club during their visit. The oysters were great, my pan-fried perch was fantastic, but even better than both of those? The mashed potatoes.
There wasn’t anything particularly special about their preparation: whipped potatoes, butter, and chives. But holy cow, they were delicious! Creamy and succulent. Seasoned perfectly. Some of the best I’ve ever had.
Maybe it’s the fact that I rarely have mashed potatoes, because–shocker!–Tara doesn’t like them. (Actually, that one is surprising. Who doesn’t love mashed potatoes? Especially someone who lived in Idaho for nine years?! Mashed potatoes are incredible. Not liking them is on the same level as me not liking watermelon, which I’ll readily admit is strange.) The only exception she’ll make is instant mashed potatoes. I’m sorry, woman…have you gone mad?!
You know I’m worked up when I use multiple interrobangs in the same paragraph.
Granted, I could make mashed potatoes anytime. Tara’s distaste for beans never prevents me from popping open a can when the mood strikes. “Don’t ever let me stop you from eating something you enjoy,” she says, which I appreciate. But mashed potatoes are a little more labor intensive than beans. The peeling and dicing, the mashing. It’s a lot of work for one person, so unless it’s Thanksgiving (and not always on Thanksgiving–sometimes stuffing wins out), I rarely bother.
And, you know, sometimes you can’t find a potato masher to save your life.
So, when I do have them, they feel like a special treat, and I tend to enjoy them that much more. All of this got me to thinking: why aren’t mashed potato shops a “thing”? Imagine a concept similar to froyo (frozen yogurt, if you weren’t alive in the ’90s): you grab a cup or bowl, fill it with mashed potatoes, and then choose your toppings. Brown gravy, white gravy, cheese, bacon bits, scallions, butter, salt and pepper, crushed red chilies…the possibilities are endless. You could even offer a selection of potato varieties. Russets, Yukon Golds, baby reds. And they’d charge you by weight, like they did with the yogurt. The convenience alone would be worth the price.
I don’t know about you guys, but I’d frequent the shit out of a mashed potato shop.
The fact that I’m not filthy stinkin’ rich by now is truly puzzling. One of life’s greatest mysteries.
That Jimothy really gets around!
I love raccoons. And I love underdogs. (I don’t love being under dogs, just to be clear. All that pawing and slobbering and face-licking makes me uncomfortable, unless it’s Tara doing it, and she ain’t no dog.)
All of which is to say, I am just as captivated by Jimothy, the Seattle raccoon with the spinal deformity who has become a viral sensation, as the rest of the world. Probably more so. The link is just in case you’re living under a rock.
So, when I heard a rumor that Jimothy is now prowling the streets of Roku City, I had to see for myself.
Well, well. What do you know!
I have never been so happy to own a Roku in my life. Thank god for streaming.
Do you read the newspaper? Would you visit a mashed potato shop? Any other Jimothy sightings I should be aware of?
Mark My Words 
Leave a comment