Attack of the Leftovers by W.M. Akers
“We have too many mashed potatoes,” said Caroline. “I know!” said her brother, Stewart. “I am sick of them.” “We’ve had mashed potatoes for lunch.” “We’ve had mashed potatoes for dinner.” “We’ve even,” said Caroline with a grimace, “had them for breakfast.” “Thanksgiving is over,” said her brother, crossing his arms. “We want new food.”
Thanksgiving had happened five days earlier. Everyone came over to their house: aunts and uncles and cousins. Even a long‐lost aunt from Alabama. They ate turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy. Lots and lots of gravy. It was great. It made everyone sleepy.
But when everyone left, the food was still there. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Gravy. Everywhere! The counters were covered. Food invaded the fridge. It sat on Caroline and Stewart’s plates for days and days. Eventually, it got boring. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease,” said Stewart. “Make us something else!” “Not mashed potatoes.” “Anything but that!” “Hmm,” said Mom. She was quiet for what seemed like a long time. Her finger tapped against her mouth. “I think I have an idea.” She took out a container. Stewart’s mouth fell open. “Mom!” he shouted. “Are you crazy? Those are the mashed potatoes.” “They sure are,” said Mom. “I think I just remembered something my grandmother used to do.”
Mom pulled out a frying pan and a jug of vegetable oil. She poured the oil in the pan. It went glug, glug, glug. She turned on the heat. Stewart and Caroline backed away. They are not allowed near the stove when hot oil is in the pan. While the oil got hot, Mom fixed the potatoes. She turned the container upside down. “Plop!” went the potatoes. They fell onto the counter in a cold, hard block. With her sharpest knife, Mom sliced the potatoes into squares. She dusted them with flour. She sprinkled them with salt. She covered them with pepper. And then she slid them into the oil. Sizzle! went the oil. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle! “Whoa, Mom,” said Caroline. “What are you doing?” “I’m frying the potatoes. The same way you would make French fries. It’s a good way to get rid of leftovers.”
When the potatoes stopped sizzling, they were done. Mom lifted them from the oil and let them dry. Once they were cool, Caroline picked one up in her hands. “Don’t you want one, Stewart?” “No!” he said. “I told you. No more mashed potatoes.” Caroline lifted the block of crisp, brown potato to her mouth. She took a tiny bite—the tiniest bite in the world. “Oh boy,” she said. “Oh boy, Stewart. These are good.” He took a bite, too. She was right. The potatoes didn’t taste like mashed potatoes at all. They were crisp and brown on the outside. They were creamy and fluffy on the inside. It was like eating a crispy cloud. “See?” said Mom. “Leftovers aren’t the end of the world.”
