Ode to Mashed Potatoes

My friend Alexandra
Fixed the best mashed potatoes--
It was
Her raison d'etre.
At fifteen years old,
We spent Saturdays together.
She lived in a three-story home;
Kitchen in the cellar,
Tiny work bench,
Small white cookstove.
At four p.m. we'd descend
The steep dark staircase
To peel potatoes
Stored in a wooden bucket
Behind the sturdy oak door.
Big white Idahos,
Thick brown peel,
With eyes.
She examined closely
Every potato I pared;
Made sure
All specks were removed,
Then cut them up
Just so.
Popped them in cosy salt-water
To boil.
Softened to perfection
Out they came--
And the magic began.
I've never seen anyone beat potatoes
With such elan;
First with a fork
Until all the lumps
Were frightened into submission,
Then with a whisk
Until they were
Air-downy--
Adding gradually
Soft coverlets of
Golden butter and
Creamy milk. 
Such fluffy potatoes,
They grew in size
As she whisked
And whisked.
I swear her right arm was
Twice the size
Of her left one. 
When the glorious concoction
Was spun
To her satisfaction,
They were cradled in a warm oven
So they could
Be eaten
At the correct temperature.  
Sometimes I stayed for dinner--
Beef Wellington? filet mignon?
I don't recall
The rest of the menu.
But those potatoes,
Mashed with such care,
Peeled and eyed
Under such loving
Supervision,
Resting comfortably
But briefly
On our plates,
Were the gustatory stars.