I can always count on my two best friends for hangouts unique in experience, and immense in laughter. Today we decided to prepare breakfast together, in anticipation of a successful meal as chefs worthy of belonging on “food network.” With an apron in hand, and peeled potatoes on the counter, I seemed confident in my rank amongst the three of us. I was in charge of making hash browns, which in the beginning seemed quite doable, but later would discover several  bumps along the road to not perfection. The potatoes had a reddish tint, already making it seem inedible to the actually amateur cook I was. They were also very watery preventing the attainability of the perfect, crisp golden hash brown. After about twenty-five minutes of stirring and flipping, the only crisp from the final product resembled that of overcooked grits, with the consistency of mashed potatoes.

While normally this could be passed as the product of severe inexperience, in my case I was dictated to be falsely advertising my hash brown making abilities. I had originally told my friends to place their full trust in me, grossly exaggerating my skills in the kitchen. I then went on to say how I undoubtedly cooked hash browns in numerous past occasions, yet this was definitely a lie as at home I served the roll of an observer rather a participant. My friends, therefore, when served their equal portion of the mash immediately began to chastise its appearance, cribbing throughout our meal. I thought that they tasted better than the look of it, but clearly there had been something wrong.

Despite the disappointing potatoes, I still had a great time doing something stray of commercial entities. The simple task of cooking breakfast together was a bonding experience unlike others, and offered another collection of memories. Additionally, the fact that all three of us risked eating undercooked potatoes, for an only mediocre satisfactory taste, is just indicative of our forever friendship.