The annual McClintock Hall Friendsgiving took an unexpected turn this year when every single attendee arrived with the same dish: instant mashed potatoes. What should have been a heartwarming evening of shared gratitude quickly descended into carbohydrate chaos. “It was supposed to be simple,” said sophomore Julia Kline, the event’s organizer. “I made a Google Doc for dish sign-ups, but no one used it. Everyone just showed up with their own box of Idahoan and called it a day.” By 7:00 PM, the lounge table resembled a mashed potato shrine, with over 20 boxes piled high and no other food in sight. “It felt like we were in some kind of potato cult,” said freshman Ethan Rodriguez. “All that was missing was a sacrificial gravy boat.”
Determined to salvage the evening, the group began brainstorming ways to turn their potato surplus into a Friendsgiving feast. One attendee suggested making “super mashed potatoes” by mixing all the boxes into a single pot, but the dorm microwave quit halfway through, producing a smell that one attendee described as “potato lava meets burnt plastic.” Hope seemed lost until senior Claire Davidson—armed with a spatula and a dream—proposed a bold plan. “We’re artists,” she declared. “Let’s sculpt our dinner.” Using their collective creativity (and a lot of butter), the group began shaping the mashed potatoes into iconic Thanksgiving dishes. By 8:00 PM, the table featured a mashed potato turkey with pretzel sticks for legs, a potato pie with gravy drizzle “filling,” and even a miniature mashed potato pumpkin. “It was oddly beautiful,” said Julia, wiping a tear as she added final details to the potato cranberry sauce. “This is what Friendsgiving is all about—making the best of a terrible situation.”
The evening’s unity, however, was short-lived. Just as the group sat down to admire their masterpiece, sophomore Alex Meyers arrived late with a dish no one expected: a Jell-O mold filled with unidentifiable floating objects. “It’s, like, a family tradition,” Alex said proudly. The room fell silent as the gelatinous monstrosity wobbled ominously in the dim lounge light. One brave soul took a bite and immediately regretted it. “I’m not saying it was sentient,” said Ethan, grimacing, “but I’m also not saying it wasn’t.”
The Jell-O was unanimously banished to the trash, and everyone eagerly returned to the safety of mashed potato turkey slices and pie-shaped potato wedges. “Honestly, I’m thankful for the potatoes now,” said Julia, digging in. “At least they don’t fight back.”As students left the lounge, Potato Mountain remained as a towering testament to their ingenuity. Maintenance staff reportedly found a squirrel inspecting the turkey sculpture the next morning, likely plotting its own Friendsgiving.
For next year, Julia already has a new plan in mind: assigned dishes, a strict “no potatoes” rule, and a complete ban on Jell-O
