Monster mash...
In my house, I am famous for my mashed potatoes. I can't confess to having some secret formula, but perhaps the butter mountain and vicious beating with a wooden spoon have something to do with its popularity. Son number two, who is starting to recover from his life-threatening gumboil decided that for dinner last night, he would 'try' to eat a Chicken Kiev. I thought this a great idea, but when I suggested some curly chips to go with it, these were discarded as being 'too pointy'. 'Anyway', he said, 'I found some mashed potato in the freezer. I've got it out to defrost'. Sure enough, there was one of my plastic pots crammed with the creamy stuff, so I left him to rustle up his own dinner (my capacity to care will only last so long before the kids understand that they're on their own). Standing in the kitchen (some would call it supervising) I watched as the chicken was taken from the oven. 'I'll just heat my mash up