I Say Potato, You Say Potato

STEVE: My grandmother was a very warm-blooded, carbon-based organism capable of thought, speech, and a few other tricks. She’s long dead, thankfully. But she was the one who taught me – with no small amount of physical violence, mind you – how to properly peel and prep potatoes.

STEVE GRABS A LARGE SACK OF LIVE, TITTERING POTATOES.

Now, Grandma always insisted they had to be freshly caught and alive potatoes. And while my PTSD and regular flashbacks ensure I’m not a fan of canned or frozen – nor capable of walking down either of those aisles at the supermarket without breaking down into uncontrollable tears, if you would be so kind as to allow me to overshare – feel free to make do with whatever’s on hand.

That said. What you do is grab hold of one by the husk, like so…

STEVE REACHES INTO BAG, GRABS POTATO.

There we are…

POTATO HISSES.

Then you sort of deshell it, like this…

STEVE CRACKS, SNAPS, BREAKS POTATO CARAPACE. POTATO SCREAMS LITTLE SCREAMS.

And once you’ve asserted dominance and instilled fear in the rest of the bag through this ruthless, blood-thirsty display, the rest will mash, boil, bake, or fry with the greatest of ease.

But, as a final warning, do be sure to keep an eye on your potatoes. They are, of course, capable of holding a grudge across several generations, and likely to return in greater numbers if allowed to escape and procreate.

Thank you, and please, leave me alone.