Man does not live by potatoes alone.

Frenchie and I came home from the temple this afternoon and decided it was high time we ate some of the millions of potatoes our mothers had showered upon us. As I opened the cabinet where we keep the potato basket, a smell came flooding out; something like rancid milk... times about one trillion... with a hint of disastrous blowout diaper.

Our kitchen had been getting a funny smell a couple days before today, but somehow we didn't think to look in that cabinet...

Bracing myself for the unknown, I removed the potato basket from the cabinet and peered inside: the newest bunch of potatoes looked fine, but after removing that layer the smell became overwhelmingly putrid. I carefully picked one up, well I thought I was being careful, but it popped spilling brown juice reeking of overflowing, forgotten trashcan all over my hand. Embarrassingly enough I shrieked like a little girl and threw it into the kitchen trashcan. I picked up the next one and that one burst, too. And the one after that.  And the one after that. And the one after that until I had squealed so much that Frenchie leaned out of her room and asked, "Are you okay?" 

I was not okay.

If either of our moms even so much as mentions buying us a bag of potatoes I might cry. It may be a "great meal idea," but we are only two people. The only way we will eat three bags of potatoes in three weeks is if we have them for every single meal every single day. Even I don't think I can do that.