My maternal grandmother once made mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving that were both lumpy and runny, with a consistency like kinetic sand, that had no real flavor at all. She went near purple when her brother’s new wife insisted she take it home with her. With any luck she spackled her walls with it after the holidays were over.
When I tell you it's a miracle that I know how to cook anything that wouldn't get me relegated to napkin duty at the Baptist potluck I am not kidding.