“My potato is revolting,” Frederick announced. The St. John-Smythe’s were dining in the great hall and his words had an ominous echo.
“What a dreadful thing to say. A bit dry maybe, cook had to do them in the smaller oven, mistimed the beef or something,” Mum always tried to support the help, particularly on matters as important as dinners. The courage of her convictions, when it came to cook’s carving of the Sunday roast, was known throughout the household.
“No, I mean it. It just stuck a fork in my hand. And it’s started verbally abusing the carrots now.”
The family all looked over and, sure enough, there was a fork in the back of Frederick’s hand. The language emanating from the rebelling tuber was quite uncalled for given the situation. But the carrots had obviously had enough and were embarking on their own campaign of terror, aimed at the peas.
The peas however, sensing danger, had mobilised and with the help of a serving spoon were launching themselves at the carrots. Unfortunately their knowledge of ballistic trajectory was poor at best and a good many of their rank ended up perishing in the water jug.
At that moment cook came in from the kitchen. She surveyed the scene briefly then, with swift determination, picked up the carving knife and sliced the potato in two. This decisive action calmed everyone down and dinner continued without further occurrence.
Later, over tea, the topic of what had originally caused the insurrectionary potato to riot was briefly discussed.
“The sour cream, I’m sure,” said mum.
“How can you tell?” Frederick asked.
“Just a hunch. I’m certain I saw the spud flinch when I applied the condiment.”
Mother decided on mashed the following week acknowledging that, while this would cause more work for cook, it would certainly be less stressful for the peas.
Copyright Kelly Evans