THE KITCHEN ARTS

Melanie was dabbing her eyes, and the kitchen was already like a sauna bath because Nan was boiling huge pots of water in preparation for the mashed-potato project. Months ago, she had signed on to whip up two hundred servings of instant mashed potatoes for a church supper. "Snapping turtles must kill animals to eat, or they would starve to death," Nan said, ripping open another box of Betty Crocker mashed potatoes. "It's not like they can go to the supermarket. They're not mean, it's just nature."

The only response was a quiet sniffle.

Nan glanced at the oven clock. Roger would be coming up for lunch soon, after mowing down in the meadow. "What is all this," he'd say. "How did you get stuck with all this mashed potato nonsense?"

And he'd be right. Why not just set out potato chips. Nan imagined that somewhere there was a woman in charge of cooking two hundred servings of gravy, asking the same question.

Of course all of this stuff would have to be reheated. The whole deal smacked of a woman's idea. Nan hated to admit it, but a man would never think up a stupid idea like this. Why 200 servings? Why mashed potatoes and gravy at all, she persisted. Because it's good country cookin'. She laughed out loud at that.

"Melanie, no, I was just thinking of something funny. I'm sorry the turtle had to die."

Nan's arm was getting sore from the effort of stirring dusty little potato bits till they liquefied. Plus she had twisted her shoulder dealing with the mailbox fire. The newspaper and a letter got singed, but of course the bills emerged unscathed. It only goes to figure, Nan thought to herself.

So how the heck was she to carry this potato mountain to the church hall? In what? Well, she could freeze it. ... Yes, she could freeze it into a huge snowball and toss it into the station wagon. Then ... no, wait ... before she threw it in the car, she could carve it into a centerpiece, just like an ice sculpture, except made out of potatoes.

But a sculpture of what? How about a pair of praying hands, mashed-potato hands, frozen in prayerful contemplation. Accompanied by a gravy fountain, just like those trendy chocolate fountains. "Melanie, you realize, the chicken we eat was once a living chicken," she said.

That was the wrong thing to say, Nan guessed, judging from Melanie's reaction.

Back to the sculpture idea, which was too good to waste on a church dinner. It really bordered on art. It would be an installation. This time she held back laughing, for Melanie's sake. Of course, she'd write up an explanation to hang on the wall next to it in the museums.

The screen door banged. "What is all this?"

Roger was back.

And then, "How did you get stuck with this mashed potato nonsense?"

"What's for lunch," he added, casting a puzzled glance at the charred newspaper.