Domestication Fail #1: How NOT To Make Potatoes

Hubs and I had only been dating a couple of months before the urge to prove my domestic prowess took over. Unable to paint the walls of his drab little bachelor pad, I decided to settle for something slightly more subtle. I was going to cook a nice big meal for my man. And it was going to be amazing. I planned it all out: Steaks, dinner rolls, salad, the whole nine. Of course what's a good old fashioned Irish boy to eat with his steak? A hearty helping of mashed potatoes, of course. Yum!

Trying my best to obey the laws of a good housewife, I allowed Hubs to take the steaks outside and grill them himself. (Honestly, I was, and still am, absolutely terrified of the grill. I've never grilled anything in my life.) I stayed busy in the kitchen, dicing veggies for the salad and mixing nilla wafers into the banana pudding mix. In my excitement, I had completely forgotten about the potatoes. And if you've ever tried to make mashed potatoes from scratch, you know you can't just whip them up five minutes before dinner is served. It takes a bit.

So in a rush, I pulled out the dutch oven, scrubbed and diced the potatoes, and set them to boil. The second they were done, I strained them and...

"Hubs? Do you have a hand mixer?"
"A what?"
"A hand mixer. You know, the thing your mother let you lick cake batter off of when you were a kid."
"Oh. No, I don't have one. Why?"

At this point I'm thinking "Shit, shit shit!" Yeah, I could mash them with a fork. But by the time I've finished that, the steaks will be gross. So I came up with an ingenious plan. Hurriedly, I tossed the diced potatoes in a blender, added some sour cream, shredded cheese, butter, and a bit of milk. Hey, it should work, right?

Wrong.

At first, it seemed like it would work. At least the blades at the bottom seemed to be spinning. That's good, right? But then came the smell of burning wires. Oh yay, I've started an electrical fire.

The motor overheated and a foggy smoke started to rise up from the bottom of the blender. As quickly as I could, I unplugged the machine, picked it up, and slam-dunked it straight into the garbage can. I don't know why I thought that trashing the entire blender would conceal the evidence of my domestication fail and appliance homicide.

At that moment, Hubs walked in from the porch carrying a plate of delicious looking steaks. The first thing out of his mouth was, "God! What's that SMELL?!" There was nothing I could say, really. I just lifted the lid of the can and sighed in defeat. Hubs, being the awesome guy he is, just laughed and dumped the steaks in on top of it. As good as they looked, we had both lost our appetite to the reek of melting wires.

But the pizza that night was awesome.