I Mash Hawai'i

Two weeks ago, for some unusual reason, I found myself missing home. Term is almost over, and yet two weeks ago I was yearning to return home to Hawai’i. On the 21^st of April I will find myself boarding an airplane back to Hawai’i. This longin for home could have possibly stemmed from our discussion in class of Nora Ephron’s roman á clet novel, Heartburn. The discussion of the comforts that we can find in certain foods, which for the character Rachel was potatoes, mashed potatoes and their bringing a certain homey comfort. So later that night, I tried to cheer myself up with the impending , bittersweet end of my relationship with London and my longing for Hawai’i, I made mashed potatoes. Granted all the potatoes I had were small potatoes, I used an entire bag of them. As I washed each individual potato I looked at them as though I could find the comfort I was searching for in their eyes. Potatoes are not very good at staring back. With the disappointment I found in their unseeing eyes, I very unceremoniously attacked them with the potato peeler. As they were all quite small, I found that this task was so difficult. They slipped out my hand, making my other hand turn on its kin with the peeler. When that was done, I chopped them up, separating them from themselves. Although my version was not as creamy, the more than sufficient amount of butter that I added to the lumpy mass seemed to make up for it. To be honest, I have never sat down and had the comfort of someone bringing me their homemade mashed potatoes. In fact, I don’t recall ever eating homemade mashed potatoes, but as I added another slice of butter into the mush, I began to imagine the comforting foods that I did have waiting for me in Hawai’i.