I can still remember my mother, standing at the counter, her arms working furiously, pounding those potatoes into submission. No electric mixer for her.

First the wooden potato masher. Then a metal masher. Then off to the table. No lumps appeared in Julia’s potatoes. They wouldn’t dare.

For decades, I tried to duplicate those potatoes and failed. It wasn’t quite as spectacular a failure as my making gravy, but it was up there.

I moved on to greener pastures and adopted home fries, which I can do. Boil up five pounds, throw them in a huge L. L. Bean frying pan, saut? a few onions, throw in liberal doses of Mrs. Dash (the incompetent’s friend) and a little salt and you have enough potatoes to feed an indoor Patriots tailgate party.

Perfectly acceptable. In fact deliciously so.

But they ain’t mashed.

Mashed potatoes were left to more experienced kitchens and restaurants, which were judged by the quality of their mashed potatoes, first and foremost.

Hey, I am Boston Irish. It’s not like I had a choice.

Camping changes everything.

It was camping where I discovered one could drink box wine and not go blind. Being a Camden resident and expected to maintain a level of decorum, I rejected box wine out of hand.

Then, an esteemed jurist took the bladder out of the box and threw it into the Allagash river. When he took it out an hour later, just in time for a riverside dinner, it was heaven. I told no one. This was years ago, before this discovery was widely accepted.

While shopping for the latest trip (the rule of thumb is to bring enough food for 10 times the people who attend), I grabbed the traditional five pounds of potatoes for home fries, or to be wrapped in tin foil and thrown in the fire.

It was suggested, based on experience from the last trip, that we buy instant mashed potatoes.

What?

I ranted. I raved. I invoked my heritage. I invoked my residence. I invoked the Potato Famine. Never!

We all remember instant mashed potatoes from high school cafeterias. We all assumed it was watered down wallpaper paste. It was one of the few places where I preferred the vegetables.

“Try them. You’ll like them,” said the camp cook. We compromised. I bought the five pounds of spuds and he bought the $1.25 four cheese instant mashed potatoes (“homemade taste in four minutes”).

The next day, we crashed through the mild rapids on the St. Croix River and returned to our waterfront cabin for the evening repast. I do as little as possible on the river as well as Cobb Manor, so I sat with a beer by the river and contemplated Greater Truths.

The river chef came out the door with chicken, fresh asparagus and instant mashed potatoes. I tried them with my eyes closed and took the smallest bite possible.

Delicious. A major improvement on the high school cuisine.

Naturally, I had seconds and possibly, thirds. Truth be told, he also served the meal with gravy. He later admitted that was instant, too. On my next IGA trip I stocked up on all five flavors of Idahoan Mashed Potatoes. If there were Maineoan potatoes I would have bought them, honest. I loaded up on McCormick instant gravy, too.

But I bought them all in Rockland, so my neighbors wouldn’t see.

Reluctantly, I read the ingredient list. Maltodextrin, disodium phosphate, sodium caseinate, disodium inosate and silicon dioxide. Yikes.

I am not saying instant mixes will replace the real mashed potatoes or real gravy. But if you are a lunkhead and will always be a lunkhead, and will be alone in the kitchen a lot, I recommend them highly. Warning: You have to be able to boil two cups of water to succeed.

My favorite cousin Jerry is brilliant with computers and earned a music degree from Berklee College after age 50. Other than that, he is as dumb as a bag of rocks. Even he tried the instant potatoes in his hovel kitchen, loved them and went back to the store for more.

I am so ashamed.

What would my mother say?

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.