(proof that I was not always put off by raw meat {it's a tiny little fish, i promise})
No, I did not learn the wrong childhood metaphors. I found a rotten potato in my kitchen today. I'm not sure if you've ever encountered a rotten potato before, but it is possibly one of the more disgusting things I've ever come across in a kitchen before (and that's coming from a girl who avoids touching raw meat at all costs).
So, I remembered to defrost my last steak this morning (despite my post-girls' night tequila haze), and planned on having it with mashed red potatoes and garlic. I have little baby red potatoes on my counter, but intended to cut up the slightly older, larger red potatoes and use those before they went bad.
Way too late for that, friends.
I took the first potato off the pile and it felt fine. I smelled it to be sure, and then I noticed the OTHER two potatoes. I couldn't even really see the one at the bottom of the bowl, because the middle potato apparently decided enough was enough. Either he was going to be used, or he was going to mutiny. And mutiny he did. (Note: I don't really normally think of food as having a personality. This traumatizing experience has convinced me otherwise).
The middle potato was lying belly up with a jagged, gaping hole in it. There was a pool of black goo at the bottom of the bowl, and the hole in the potato exposed yellow liquified grossness. I just stood there for a minute staring at this huge, disgusting mess (seriously, I couldn't even bring myself to make you look at a picture to prove that I'm not exaggerating, it was that gross). Then the smell hit me like a brick wall, and I couldn't get that bowl of rotten potatoes into the trash fast enough. Yeah, the bowl was sacrificed.
Don't judge me until you've confronted a similarly traumatizing rogue potato incident.
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