Peeling

Okay . . . well . . . it's tougher than it looks.

My Mom could peel potatoes.

I mean, really peel potatoes.

She did it so fast, that, for years, I thought each potato had two peels.

Because there was always peel where I thought she had already . . .

Never mind.

Okay, so brilliant, I wasn't.

When I was ten, she decided the time had come for me to take my place in the 'potato peeling' scheme of things.

I have to point out that I had been totally fine in the whole 'watching'.

But moms are never satisfied with the status quo.

Sigh.

And to top things off, she wasn't even there.

She had put a roast in the oven, vegetables on the stove, ready to turn on.

I did know how to do that . . .

And a pan of potatoes to wash, peel and cook.

She even gave me a schedule.

At four o'clock, I reluctantly set down my book and headed into the kitchen.

I stared at the mound of potatoes and sighed.

Surely there was a better way.

But this was the sixties.

Instant anything was in its infancy.

And TV dinners were something other families ate.

I picked up a knife and started.

In my mind, I could picture Mom's sure, steady stroke.

Denuding each potato in seconds.

And in one long peel.

Reality was a bit . . . trickier.

Little chunks of potato began to rain down into the bowl.

Hmmmm.

My potato skins seemed to be a lot thicker than Mom's.

Must be a different kind of potato.

Slowly . . . very slowly . . . the white potato began to emerge.

Somewhat smaller than the original.

Okay, a lot smaller.

But finally it was finished.

I glanced at the clock.

Suddenly, Mom's strict starting time instructions began to make sense.

This wasn't her first rodeo.

Three older siblings has stood right where I was standing. Risking life and fingers in an effort to provide the family with dinner.

I picked up the second potato.

Half-an-hour later, I looked down, proudly, at my pristine bowl of newly-peeled potatoes.

Hmmm.

What had once filled the bowl now . . . didn't.

I shrugged and put a pot on the stove.

Filled it to the instructed depth with water.

Added my potatoes.

And turned on the burner.

A few minutes later, Mom came home.

I proudly pointed to the now bubbling pots of potatoes and vegetables and waited for her praise.

She didn't disappoint.

“Good job, Diane,” she said, smiling.

Happily, I went to set the table.

A job I was comfortable with.

That was over forty years ago.

I did learn to peel potatoes.

In a lot less time.

And with a lot thinner peels.

I have never been able to match my Mom's lightning fast, and amazingly efficient knife, but I can make a fairly credible showing.

Or so I thought.

At our last family dinner, two of my granddaughters, ages six and nine, peeled all of the potatoes for the meal.

And when your feeding some twenty people, that is a mound.

They were quicker than I am.

I was suddenly reminded of my mom.

Sometimes excellence skips a generation.