Mashing and Cleaving in the 'burg

A few weeks ago (OK maybe longer), I told you about my brand-new potato ricer and Francis Lam's recipe for perfect mashed potatoes.

In anticipation of christening my new tool, I bought a 5-lb bag of russets which have the highest starch content of any potato and apparently make the fluffiest potatoes -- although I wouldn't be adverse to using Yukon Gold just for the yummy buttery flavor.

The problem is mashed potatoes cry out for a juicy roasted bird or a big slab of roast beast to go alongside them. And with the heat index up in the 100s here in the 'burg lately, I just haven't been into the whole idea of turning on the oven.

But by last weekend, the spuds were wanting to sprout. I decided to go for it. I talked the Recurring Gentleman Caller (RGC) into firing up the grill. Because he is a man and, therefore, a meat and potato whore, he even peeled the potatoes.

Step one: I put the peeled spuds, cut into quarters, in cold salted water, and let them come to a boil. OK, I already knew about the cold water part from my mama. They cook more evenly or something like that.

I should point out that even though cooking is basically one big science experiment, I am not a math and science geek, and, because of this Alton Brown will never be my favorite Food Network star.

I don't want to know all the nerdy factoids. I just want magic -- and for my food to taste so good that people will weep with pleasure, sing hosannas to my greatness and possibly buy me jewelry and small islands. Is there anything wrong with that?

Lost in this self-absorbed little reverie, I forget to turn the potatoes down to a simmer and almost let them overcook, a big no-no according to Mr. Lam. After about 15 minutes, you're supposed to poke them with a fork to make sure they are tender. They are.

Now ordinarily at this juncture, I dump the potatoes into a bowl with some cream and butter, mash the heck out of 'em and call it a day.

But Francis recommends drying out the potatoes on a baking sheet in a 300 degree oven for a few minutes. Damn, I have to turn on the oven after all.

Meanwhile I put some milk and cream in a pot on slow simmer and dump some salt and pepper into the mixture. Living in South Mississippi, I have a fairly comfortable relationship with my spice rack, so I am generous with both shakers.

I am tempted to chop up some fresh herbs a la Ina Garten (my favorite Food Network chef), but decide no fancy stuff this go round. I don't want to skew the results of this little experiment.

Oh joy, it's time for the potato ricer! The potatoes really do come out looking like rice. It's just like pressing garlic, except no smooshed pods to pick out and no smell clinging to my fingers. This is fun!

I venture a taste. So far kind of dry and bland. Uh oh, Francis, you got some 'splaining to do. Per his direction, I cut up a few chunks of butter and start alternating them with the riced potatoes. I slowly add the hot (but not boiling) cream mixture to the potatoes and gently fold it in.

Ahhhhhhh, here's the magic! These potatoes are light, airy, floaty, fluffy, butter-drenched perfection. Now if you're one of those people who like lumps in your potatoes, well, lump them then, this may not be the method for you. I, however, consider myself a convert.

My man Francis, how could I ever have doubted you?

I steal a glance at the RGC sweating over the grill outside and face a moral dilemma: Do I eat all the potatoes now and tell him the cats got into them, or do I force myself to set some aside so he can share?

I decide to take the high road, but only because he bought me an early birthday present -- a Wusthof meat cleaver which he let me have only after I promised I would never use it on him or anything belonging to him.

It's a deal -- as long as he never comes between me and my mashed potatoes.

A perfect mashed potato recipe and an uber new kitchen weapon. I am one empowered kitchen goddess.

Now, what can I cleave?

Things I Love About My Cats

People often ask which of the cats is my favorite. My answer is always the same. Each and every one makes my heart happy in an entirely different way. I can't imagine my life without a single one of them.

Specifically, I love:

Henry's gorgeous mandarin butterscotch fur with eyes to match ... Big kissable pink nose ... Magnificent whiskers ... Tummy, soft and downy as a baby chick's (just don't think about petting it ) ... "Superior being" attitude ... ... Henry VIII and Buddha imitations ... "Frenchness" ... Handsomeness incarnate. He should be in ads.

Sammy's sleek, black velvet coat ... Long tail flourished grandly like a punctuation mark ... Southern accent and three-syllable meow .. Supersized purr .. Tail up, high-stepping show cat trot ... Preferred sleep position -- rear paws pulled over his head with sly sideways peek. Is there anything in the world more adorable than a little black cat curled up asleep?

Koko's wide eyed owl-cat stare ... Really Big Lips forming a big white "O" -- no one pulls off righteous indignation better ... Single white whisker in bas relief against a midnight backdrop ... Stubby little tail thumping on wood floors ... "I see a bird, Mama" meow ... Cheek caressing my cupped palm ..... Warmth against my side (or behind my knees, or on my feet) at night ... Soft snoring ... Obsessive-compulsive bathing and litter-box scratching.

Nettie's mohawk standing on end along her spine .. Orange patches on her rear foot and under her front leg -- just one chromosome away from an orange tabby ... Heart-shaped face, a sweet complement to her tart tortie attitude ... Head resting against my shoulder, gazing up at me adoringly ... Favorite sleep position: Weight curled on my hip night after night ( I'll probably need hip replacement one day) ... Proud Egyptian sphinx profile.

CJ 's "Mardi Gras mask" facial markings ... Thick, multi-colored coat ... Teeny suggestion of a tail ... Splotchy nose and big, wide set eyes like a rag doll ... Loping bunny-run, slipping through the house like "The Shadow" ... Shy nature ... Head bowed, by my side, as she silently waits for me to pet her ... Luxuriant back rubs against the jute rug.

Ernie's sweet baby-face ... Big white belly ... Crooked tail ... Old-man's pigeon-toed gait ... Dainty meow belying his behemoth girth ... Massive multi-toed paws gently patting my face ... Forever-kittenish playful nature ... Favorite sleep position: on his back, paws up in the air ... Denial of his considerable size; he constantly tries to fit in teensy boxes and perch on narrow ledges ... Complete and total adoration of Roxie.

Roxie's close-set "I Dream of Jeannie" almond eyes ... Prissy little walk, claws clicking like high heels as she sashays through the house ... Circular tabby markings ... Warm, maternal nature ... Unabashed adoration of Ernie which he fervently returns ... Pause for permission before jumping up on furniture ... Body stretched out like a super-hero in flight when she is picked up (all she needs is a cape).