Searching For Mashies 

June 1^st, 2003 

BROKEN BOW, Neb. — My wife left me and here I am in the Super 8 Motel in Broken Bow, Neb., in bed with bare-naked ladies.  

 Well, truth be known, its Bare Naked Ladies, the Canadian rock group. "You Can Be My Yoko Ono" is on the I-Pod and in my ears. Jan has taken a two-week hiatus from the bike trip for a grandchild fix in Parker and New York City.  

 And, instead of ladies — naked, partially clothed or otherwise — I’m thinking about mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes, the Holy Grail of my gastronomic existence that seems to have evolved into a never-ending search for tuber perfection.  

 Every morning upon awakening, optimism surges through my veins in hope that this day will be the day a heaping plateful of mashed-potato perfection will be placed on the table before me. Sadly, almost every evening finds yours truly once again turning down the bed covers in disappointment, as another series of eating establishments has come up way short in the world of mashed-potato preparation.  

 The meaning of life is a question some of us continually ponder. Not this kid. I am at one with the thought that life, as we know it, is all about perfect mashed potatoes with a thick slab of rhubarb pie for desert. When it comes to spuds, yours truly is just not a French-fry fanatic.  

 Baked will do in a pinch, provided ample supplies of sour cream are plateside. American fries were a favorite a long ago time, back when cholesterol counts and blood-pressure medication were things "old guys" worried about. But mashed potatoes — piled high in a snowdrift upon my plate, mashed potatoes not sullied with brown or white gravy but flavored with a hint of horseradish, garlic or cheddar — ah, that is nothing short of culinary artistry at its zenith.  

 Mashed potatoes, prepared by a culinary artist for a diner who appreciates potato perfection and relishes this gastronomic delight.  

 That’s the good news. Here's the bad. Seemingly 99 percent of the restaurants in Oregon, Idaho (the home of potatoes for crying out loud), Montana and Wyoming are illiterates in preparing mashed potatoes. Most of the mashed potatoes sampled on this trans-continental sojourn give real meaning to the phrase, "Is it soup yet?"  

 Each evening’s meal seems to follow a script. Yours truly asks, "Are your mashed potatoes from scratch or a box?"  

 "Oh," comes the reply, "We make them from scratch every day and they’re really good."  

 Well, not to doubt the veracity of their statement, but these people wouldn’t know real gourmet mashed potatoes if they were drowning in them. My palate for mashed potatoes is not satiated by gruel the consistency of scalloped corn. I’m looking for real mashed potatoes, the kind that when you stick a fork in them the fork stands so straight and erect it turns Bob Dole green with envy.  

 Now it is Nebraska’s turn for the mashed-potato test.  

 So far, I have covered what appears to be half the state. Broken Bow is just past the fold in the map so that is half way isn’t it? But my friend, Greg Schaefer, visited me along with his motor home containing a fridge that his better half, Sal, had stuffed with gourmet goodies, excepting mashies. Life has indeed been great in the state that advertises itself as the "Home of the Good Life."  

 Greg returned home to see his family and catch some JUCO action, so last night I wandered in to the Double T in Halsey, Neb., "On the Edge of the Nebraska National Forest." The owner, a man who appeared to be in his mid-70s, was the bartender and waiter. His wife was the cook. Every table he approached he announced, "Her special tonight is a New York strip." And every diner ducked the special and ordered the chicken-fried steak. So I followed suit.  

 "Whaddya want with it?" he asked.  

 "Mashed potatoes?" I expectantly replied.  

 "Nope," he said. "She don’t make ’em worth a damn so I won’t serve ’em. You can either have Texas fries or baked."  

 Ergo, baked it was. To tell you the truth, his wife, the cook, doesn’t do baked real well either but could that woman whip up a mean chicken-fried steak. Mmmm, did it ever give new meaning to the words "comfort food."  

 I have been a Colorado Rockies season ticket holder since the first game 10 years ago. This year, I gave them up. Both the seats and the Rockies. Based upon the rocky Rockies’ relief pitching so far this season, giving up the tickets was a great decision.  

 But as much as I love baseball, what I really miss is stopping by the Denver Chop House outside service area near the left field entrance to Coors Field. There you can buy, for a buck, a Dixie Cup, the pointed-on-the-end kind, just filled to overflowing with a veritable snowdrift of mashed potatoes. Forget about hot dogs and apple pie. To me Rockies baseball is all about good mashies, and really bad relief pitching.