the: you had to feel potatoes to be sure if it was right gramma said. as she tossed in the cream and butter and with this note heap on to a cuddle that lump of , butter on the crust and dusted it with pepper, paprika, god forbid. but course black pepper so fresh from the spice mill that set us all to sniff it. the memory betrays me. i find myself bursting into nostalgic tears, tears of pity for myself, tears for a lost generation of restaurant diners, who never will know the truth about mashed potatoes. [laughter] spuds arewhom fluffed, paddled, beaten, crushed, flounce and shaken but never, never mashed. [laughter] rick: i love it. and i actually love her for another reason. my dear departed mother, the few actual objects she bequeathed me, was a real potato masher. i have tried the smashers with a little zigzag things. they just don't do it. and i have tried ricers, but they get stuck. and this there's something one, visceral about it. it is real. mark: it is an excellent tool. rick: there you go. that was good. thank you for that. here is my next que