Have you ever looked across a crowded room and spotted a stranger and fallen so hopelessly in love that it’s like a conductor struck up an orchestra in your heart and “Some Enchanted Evening” began to play? That’s never happened to me with a woman, but for many years it was how I felt about potatoes.
Maybe the passion would’ve been there regardless, but lacking a large intestine only fanned its flames — when you’re potassium-deficient, you eye potatoes (and salt) almost lasciviously. It was a running joke in my family that there was no need to ask what I had for dinner the previous night; the answer was potatoes. The only question was in what form.
My favorite, the twice-baked potato, was always a labor of love: start-to-finish, the process can take up to two hours. But it was something I gave up gradually a few years ago, without much thought. Crankenstein brought it up a few months back, during a conversation about an upcoming appointment. “She wants me to name things I struggle to do,” I told her about the neurologist. “Like inflating tires or putting Muriel’s pills in pill pockets.”
“Cooking in general,” Crankenstein opined. A couple years ago she barred me from helping her chop or peel vegetables, but I’d chalked that up to her impatience more than my (extreme, she insists) slowness. “Like potatoes,” she added. At first I thought that sounded nuts, but she continued: “You stopped making them because of your hands and you were too stubborn to ask for help.” She was right. I’d apparently lost my potatoes to Parkinson’s.
The more I thought of it, the more irritated I became, but eventually I was reminded of Rodgers and Hammerstein. My grandfather loved South Pacific and in the produce section of the supermarket I amused myself by inwardly crooning “Some enchanted evening, you may see a tater…” Finally, a couple weeks ago, I bought two potatoes and a new vegetable brush — a Cuisipro that was easier to grip than the OXO variety I normally use.
It wasn’t a smooth reunion and I ended up botching the second bake due to difficulties with a knife and spoon. For a split-second, I wanted to cry. If you read my posts about tennis, or the best and worst moments of my life, you might think I cry incessantly. But it happens rarely and is due to frustration more often than not. On the verge of tears about freakin’ potatoes, I thought of Marlon Brando shouting “You can act like a man!” in The Godfather and moved on with my afternoon.
Today, I tried to time things better with my levodopa to see if it made a difference. I also baked one more potato than was necessary, so I had spare parts in the event of additional mayhem. It wasn’t a total triumph since I’m out of practice, but it was a start. As George Costanza would say, “I’m back in business, baby!”
