Potato Blight

I figure one of the perks of being the YWP in my ward is that I can let the weekly service clipboard pass right on by. So Sunday, when the empty slots on the massive funeral signup winked plaintively at me, I deflected the guilt and thought of spending more quality time with my boys.

So began the Potato Blight.

Tuesday 10:25 am: Sister Bushman calls. Could I please bring 25 baked potatoes wrapped in foil on Thursday at 11:30 following her dear friend’s funeral? Guilt’s thrust to my parry.

Tuesday 10:30 am: I scribble “25 potatoes, 11:30”on my calendar and resolve for once in my life to successfully bake potatoes. Not underdone. Or withered. Or with sprouts coming out of them.

Tuesday 10:00 pm: I make it to Target for the day. I buy napkins, binkys, a white shirt for T’s portrait, and replenish my chocolate supply. Then I get distracted trying on a polka-dot dress that I decide against when I realize I look like a Dalmatian.

Tuesday 10:30 pm: I get home sans potatoes.

Wednesday 8:30 pm: YW activity is over for the night. I consider running up to Harmon’s to get potatoes but remember Wade has to hurry over to clean the church and help the Elders with the piano I roped them into hauling upstairs to the YW room.

Thursday 9:35 am: My hair is wet and I really don’t want to go to the grocery store.

Thursday 9:40 am: T really doesn’t want to go with me.

Thursday 9:45 am: Neither does John.

Thursday 9:45:05 am: I preheat the oven in a too-little-too-late attempt at planning. Will 450° work in a pinch?

Thursday 10:08 am: Picking up a bag of potatoes (and just a few quick extras) totals $53.00.

Thursday 10:15 am: Potato chaos. Foil everywhere. A 10-lb bag has exactly 23 potatoes. Johnny crying. T needs to be wiped.

Thursday 10:29 am: Potatoes in oven. Decide against 500°.

Thursday 10:36 am: Johnny in crib. T playing Legos. Me passed out on couch.

Thursday 11:24 am: The potatoes are kind of hard.

Thursday 11:27 am: Sister Bushman calls. The funeral is running short.

Thursday 11:31 am: How close to criminal neglect is it that I’m at the church and Thomas is in my basement? I toss the potatoes into varied warming bins so they won’t be sure the underdone ones are mine. Maybe a few more minutes in the foil will help?

Thursday 11:35 am: I remember the healing meal the RS served after my grandpa’s funeral.

Thursday 11:40 Thomas gets a lunch of Cheetos and licorice.

Into the Woods (one of my favorite musicals) opens with a series of platitudes, including, "A slotted spoon doesn't hold much soup." In the second act, that idea (along with everything you thought you knew about fairy tales) is modified to say, "The slotted spoon can catch the potato."

I sure hope so.