So... Scotto and I were sitting in the lounge room at 7:00pm tonight, sipping on our wine, waiting for dinner to cook when we heard twenty-one year old son, Hagar's ute, screech into the driveway.
And I was like...
 |
| What the fudge????? |
I waited for the police sirens to follow.
“Hide the drugs!” I screamed at Scotto.
“What? The Mersyndol?” he queried calmly.
The police were a no show but Hagar came gasping into the lounge in a seemingly desperate state.
“Mum! I need to borrow your potato masher, please?” he panted.
And I was like...
 |
| What the fudge????? |
“Of course you can Hagar,” I replied after I'd collected myself. “But you do know they cost two dollars from Coles.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t be bothered going there to buy one,” he shrugged as he headed in to pilfer from my kitchen.
Coles is at least one kilometre closer to his flat than my house.
“Why do you want to borrow my potato masher, Hagar?” I felt the need to inquire.
“Me and Kevin (real name) are having steak with mashed potato for dinner,” he answered.
“You know you can use a fork in a potato-mash emergency ,” I quipped.
“Yeah… not the same Mum,” he nodded wisely. “Can I borrow some milk, too?”
I was suddenly, and most inordinately overwhelmed with a matriarchal surge of pride.
My boy... my Hagar... knows that you need to put milk into mashed potato to make it extra nice.
I didn’t fail as a mother after all!!!
What extra things do you add to your mashed potato?
Please tell me!
