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?